


Heat

by Kirin_Riki



Category: Berserk (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Abduction, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Bathing/Washing, Blackmail, Blood and Gore, Dubious Morality, Dubiously Consensual Blow Jobs, Endearments, Explicit Sexual Content, Fanart, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Gay For You, Gentle Kissing, Golden Age (Berserk), Hair Washing, Haircuts, Hearing Voices, I Will Go Down With This Ship, Implied/Referenced Dubious Consent, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Injury Recovery, Love Confessions, M/M, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Nightmares, Past Sexual Abuse, Pleasuring Old Men For Money, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Pre-Eclipse (Berserk), Self-Discovery, Self-Hatred, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, The Author Regrets Nothing, Threesome - F/M/M, Top/Bottom Versatile Griffith (Berserk), Top/Bottom Versatile Guts (Berserk), Undressing, Watching Someone Sleep
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-04
Updated: 2019-09-16
Packaged: 2019-10-04 09:42:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 23
Words: 80,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17302280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kirin_Riki/pseuds/Kirin_Riki
Summary: Griffith never faltered.Everything to which he committed himself he followed through to the last meticulously planned detail. He was ambition incarnate; graceful, charismatic and ruthlessly determined. Beautiful as a waking dream. He moved through life like water over a creek bed, flowing and shifting effortlessly over every stone, his turmoil and strife unseen beneath a gleaming surface.Griffith never faltered. . . until he methim.





	1. Charcy

**Author's Note:**

> This is a side project written for funsies to give myself a break from my original series, Ice Bound. 
> 
> Chapters are released every other Sunday. Updates, memes, cosplay story/writing process tidbits and fanart for this fic and Berserk in general can all be found regularly on my instagram [kirin_riki](https://instagram.com/kirin_riki)
> 
> This fic takes place in a little pocket between Griffith being knighted and the Eclipse. Please forgive me if certain details are a bit wonky on some things as this doesn't happen in a strict place along the timeline. It is not a hard and fast recreation of events that took place in the canon and I've made my own tweaks to the universe to suit certain things in the story. Please don't bite my head off if something isn't exactly the way it was in the manga <3🙇

The siege of the Charcy training garrison was a cowardly one. Highly trained Chuder forces kept the meager trainee force at Charcy pinned down for over a month before the Band of the Hawk arrived to join the fight. They proceeded to defend the Midland fortress the same way they had countless others before it: with ruthless efficiency.

Sweeping in under the cover of a thunderstorm, the Hawk's heavy cavalry company brutally obliterated Chuder’s thin rear line. After this daring night sortie thoroughly disrupted their force, supply lines to the enemy were severed by Captain Guts and his company of raiders. Attempts by the enemy to send for supplies or reinforcements afterwards were swiftly thwarted; falconers and longbowmen stood ready at all hours, dispatching messengers and carrier pigeons. Daily tactical skirmishes forced the enemy to fight and drove them unmercifully to exhaustion. It took less than two weeks of this morale-breaking harassment to bleed and starve Chuder into retreat. In the end the fortress was secured, Midland was triumphant, and Griffith was hailed once again a tactical visionary, but he knew better than anyone no victory came without cost. The siege had left many dead and even more still wounded in both Midland and Hawk forces.

While Griffith's new title of Viscount had elevated the Hawks from mercenaries to fully fledged Midland soldiers on paper, few of the existing generals saw them as such. To them the Hawks were no better than any other roving band of sellswords looking for glory, whores and coin. Most high ranking Midland officers refused their aid even when under direct order to accept it and not even the Hawk's time in the Vanguard at Wyndham had managed to change this.

As a result, the Hawks often took on more dangerous maneuvers; not because they were ordered to by Midland generals, but because Griffith sought to demonstrate the abilities of his men whenever and however possible. He knew what they were capable of and refused to let them be kept under the boot-heels of aristocrats who could barely wield the swords of command placed in their hands by birthright alone.

The cutting-edge strategy he executed at Charcy reflected these desires and his men had paid the price for its success in blood. Though their time on the field was relatively brief, the Hawks were in more direct skirmishes than Midland’s standing army had been in twice the time.

Despite this resulting in their emergence from battle in a far more bloodied state than the troops of the Charcy garrison, Griffith sent what limited medical resources remained allotted to them to the trainees in the fort medical ward. Casca’s pleading and Guts’ stern disapproval were met with Griffith's effortless charm and convincing smile; a smile which left little room for argument.

 _“They’re the future protectors of the realm,”_ he’d said, bowing gracefully, _“their needs take precedence over those of a former mercenary band.”_

Guts had watched him, dumbfounded, as he delivered this line, along with _their_ share of supplies, to General Vorhees of the South Midland Lion Claw Knights. A muscular beast of a fellow despite his old age, the General had gladly accepted Griffith’s offer. It made Guts want to puke.

The way he saw it, Griffith was forsaking his own injured men for a payoff nobody else could see; men Guts had come to know and care about. How was he supposed to tell them that their own commander was dooming them with the dead-eyed ruthlessness of a farmer drowning a sack of unwanted kittens.

Surely, Guts thought, his men deserved just as much, if not _more_ than the Midland Fancy-Whatever Knights, who couldn’t even defend a fortress from the high ground without help. He almost, _almost,_ said something to that effect, but Griffith locked eyes with him as he straightened out of his bow. From beneath a flounce of white curls a sliding glance of blue eyes provided the reassurance Guts needed: _Trust me, my friend..._

And Guts did trust him. So much so that, afterwards, he felt foolish for doubting him. This was all part of some master plan and he should have known better. Griffith was always three steps ahead of everyone. Guts only wished he would think to share the final destination once in a while so he could better fall in step behind him.

 

As they were preparing to leave Charcy for the final time that same afternoon, a blushing lady's maid nervously approached them. She had clutched to her bosom a beautifully scribed note from her mistress, Lady Vorhees, which Griffith gratefully took.

He went oddly still as he read it, something sliding behind his eyes that was gone as quickly as it had arrived.

“What's it say?” Guts asked, peering curiously at the note. Griffith had insisted on teaching him to read, but Guts was a reluctant student and could barely make out simple things like supply manifests and ledgers. Scribed notes such as this one were nothing but fancy doodles.

Griffith relayed the note's contents with a smile. “I've been asked to take supper with Her Ladyship and General Vorhees.”

Guts tossed his head dismissively. “We need you at camp, there's no time for--”

“Please!” the maid interrupted.

Both men turned, startled by the unassuming girl's brazen outburst.

“It is a matter of honor! My lady wishes to thank you for your bravery and chivalry, Sir Griffith. For leading Charcy to victory.”

 _"Honor,”_ Guts snorted, crossing his bandaged arms. "Nobles are as slimy as they come. They don't know a thing about honor!"

Griffith put a reassuring hand on the maid's now trembling shoulder. Her eyes went to his hand with a small gasp as a blush crept over her cheeks.

“Please excuse my friend,” Griffith apologized, “He's not used to the refined company of beautiful young ladies.”

The girl, who was now blushing furiously, curtsied politely to Griffith as though she didn't know what else to do.

Griffith smiled at her youthful awkwardness, then leaned in as though to kiss her.

She froze in place like a frightened rabbit. Guts watched with disbelief as Griffith brought his mouth close to her ear. He was so close a strand of his silken white curls brushed against her cheek.

“Please tell Lady Vorhees I accept her most generous offer.”

The maid was blushing as crimson as her skirt when Griffith drew back and Guts rolled his eyes. A kiss to the back of her hand and one final, dazzling smile sent the flustered girl rushing away in a whirl of bashful apologies and ruffled petticoats.

Griffith opened his mouth to say something as he raised his arm in farewell, but closed it just as quickly. She was already too far away.

Guts scoffed. “Can’t believe you’re flirting with girls and playing politician when we could be halfway back to--”

Griffith’s attention fell upon him with such unnerving scrutiny Guts’ words snagged in his throat. The hair on the back of his neck started to prickle and he rubbed it.

Griffith stayed silent for some moments, his eyes hidden behind the gentle flow of his hair in the breeze. Abruptly he turned, putting his back to Guts.

“Your concerns are duly noted,” he stated coldly. “Now return to your post. You are to manage all necessary affairs in my absence.”

It was not a request.

Guts dropped his chin in a respectful nod then turned to put a foot in the stirrups.

“Understood.”

He mounted his horse without another word. There was no point arguing. Griffith played the long game and Guts could do nothing but trust that his ambitious commander was separating himself at such a critical time for a reason that would ultimately come to benefit them all. With that on his mind he squeezed the sides of his bay gelding and made for camp like the devil was biting at his heels.


	2. Storm

The two mile return ride from Charcy had been a somber one for Guts. Pestilent thoughts often preyed on his mind when it went unoccupied and the lack of Griffith’s presence--and persistent conversation--made it difficult to keep them at bay. His well-educated friend was inquisitive by nature and as such always seemed to have some fascinating new topic to tell him about. Though Guts’ level of participation in these talks was often minimal, just listening to Griffith prattle on about this rock formation or that species of bird was enough to keep his mind from wandering to darker places.

That afternoon Guts had had nothing to listen to but the buzzing din of an afternoon field, punctuated here and there by the screech of a hawk as it circled above, surveying its small kingdom. Guts recognized the distinctive rasping scream immediately as that of a red-tailed hawk, and he couldn’t help the fond smile that tugged at the corner of his mouth there after. Over the course of their travels, Griffith had taught him to recognize the calls of a great many birds, though Guts recalled those of the falcons, eagles and hawks best of all. Griffith had a tendency to point these out far more often than he did those of waterfowl or song birds.

The smell of fresh blood and sweat-lathered horses hit Guts’ nose before he crested the final swell that would take him to the bottom of the rocky bluff, against which the Hawk’s had made their encampment. With a sheer stone overhang to their back, a raging river to their right flank and dense forest to their left, the camp was in a well fortified position with only a single, easily defensible entrance along a narrow path to the north which wound around and eventually lead up the side of the bluff. Wildlife posed more of a threat than any would be human predators, though compared to the harsh dangers of the battlefield to which they’d become accustomed, a wild boar or curious bear poking at the fringes of camp wouldn't phase them in the slightest.

As Guts relayed Griffith’s orders and the details of the day to Casca--and everyone conveniently positioned to eavesdrop nearby--he soon found he wasn’t alone in thinking their wayward commander ought to be there with them. On the other hand, nobody seemed all that surprised by Griffith's decision to stay behind either. They all had a rudimentary understanding of how the game of politics was played and knew Griffith well enough to know he stacked the deck in his favor whenever and however possible.

 

Evenings in camp were hectic--even more so after a battle--and Griffith had left some metaphorically large boots to fill. In actuality, Guts mused, the man’s boots were rather on the small side. This shred of humour was the last light-hearted thought Guts managed that night. As acting Commander he barely had time to breathe and the hours flew past as though by some dark sorcery.

It wasn't until the dark stillness of night descended over the camp that he was finally able to sit and catch his breath. Slumped next to the officers fire, wood bowl of cold stewed peas and fresh trout barely touched beside him, Guts took stock of the day’s events. It had been overwhelming. The men were keyed up and nothing went smoothly. He didn't think his headache would ever go away. How Griffith managed it day in and day out for _years_  without killing someone, Guts couldn’t fathom. He’d only done the job for eight measly hours and had nearly strangled Corkus. Twice.

Before too long, Guts’ thoughts inexorably gave themselves over to Griffith entirely. His friend’s visage drifted calmly into his mind, inviting him down a rabbithole of confused thoughts that Guts was too tired to resist. No sooner had he embraced the familiar warmth, did his vision of Griffith disappear in a whirlwind of anxious questions. What was that tone in his voice just before they’d parted ways? That cold look? Why had he been so short with him? What was he doing now? When would he return? So many questions, the last of which made his brow furrow.

It wasn’t unusual for Griffith to stay away for nights on end when embroiled in politics or trying to curry favor with this noble or that one. Still, those sorts of absences were typically arranged ahead of time.

Guts groaned harshly, frustrated by his anxiety over the issue though he knew full well nobody benefited in the slightest from his worry-worting. Griffith was a grown man for God's sake, and Guts knew for a _fact_ he could handle himself in a fight. Perhaps, he reasoned, if Griffith had been a little worse at hand to hand combat, Guts would be in a different town, a different band, and he wouldn’t have spent that particular day being run ragged following the mandates of an absentee Commander.

“He’s probably pleased as a pig in shit that he got away with it too,” Guts griped  under his breath. “I’d bet my ass he’s up in some tower right now finding out what color that pretty maid’s sheets are.”

The more he thought about this the more sense it made. The more sense it made, the faster his mood declined. The nerve of that charming piece of--!

A growl burst out of him and he pressed his face into his palms. He was such a fool, sitting there worrying when it was so glaringly obvious to him now what Griffith was really doing. _Who_ he was doing. The thought sat in his stomach like a lump of cold iron.

“Damn that bastard flirt!”

With a swift kick his uneaten bowl of food went skittering across the clearing and into the tall grass opposite. It was a childish outburst and no sooner had he done it was he glad nobody had been around to see it.

With his frustration neutralized for a moment, he slumped over his knees like a toad, stewing in his thoughts and stabbing at the fire with a stick. The image of Griffith on top of that blushing maiden started drifting on an endless loop through his thoughts and each time it passed he stabbed the coals a little harder.

“That bastard…”

It was much too late in the evening to make sense of anything, least of all why the image of Griffith nude, sweating and vigorously engaged with a woman refused to leave his thoughts or why it made him so uncomfortable. With a tired grunt he cast what remained of his stick into the fire, glowering at the flames.

Gradually Guts’ focus shifted skyward as he breathed in the quiet calm of the night. His worries and fears seemed so small held against the vastness of the stars. Time passed immeasurably as he watched them wink and sparkle. Minutes. Hours. He could no longer tell. His time with the Hawks had passed in more or less the same manner up to that point. Some days he could scarcely recall his life before joining them; his time passing with easeful joy as though he’d been with them forever. Other days were dull and hostile, the crushing ennui that came from existing in Griffith's shadow weighing him down like a sack of bricks. On those days, a chasm of doubt and loneliness parted him from everyone around him. Everyone, ironically enough, except for Griffith.

He alone seemed to understand Guts experiences, good and bad, in ways the other men could not. When Griffith looked at him--really _looked_ at him--his eyes held a depth so unfathomable, so intense, that Guts felt like he was falling into them. Nobody had ever looked at him that way before. It was comforting and terrifying and he couldn't understand why it wasn’t more of the latter and less of the former. At times it was so personal, so intense, it bordered on obscene, and yet it never went _quite_ that far.

Guts had asked Griffith many years before if he was queer. Griffith had just smiled at him. It wasn’t a yes, or a no, but something akin to the amused look a parent bestows on a child oversimplifying something too complex for them to understand. The young swordsman had been so caught off guard by the mixture of relief and disappointment he’d felt then, that he’d been too afraid to ask for further clarification. To know for certain what his ambiguous feelings would solidify into terrified him. He’d been stewing in awkward confusion ever since.

When Guts’ head started to nod off with sleep, he stood with a great heave and stretched his aching muscles. He couldn’t wait for--or think about--Griffith any longer. With feet as weighted down as his thoughts, he dragged himself to his tent for some much needed sleep.

Several hours later Guts’ tossing and turning was interrupted by the sound of hooves plodding slowly into camp. The faint glow of morning twilight tinged the edges of his tent flap.

Guts listened.

There was silence for a moment, then two hushed voices accompanied the scuffle of feet. The snorting nickers of an agitated horse joined briefly. The horse was quickly calmed and taken away by someone--no doubt the ferrier’s young apprentice, Giles, who always seemed to be awake. The poor lad had a condition of the throat and thus slept little and lightly.

As the horses hooves faded away, only the sound of unhurried steps, paired with the grind of fine leather on sand, remained.

It was Griffith, no question.

Nobody else in the Band had formal dress boots. Boots like that, with buttery soft soles, were made for dancing across polished ballrooms and wandering down ornate marble corridors, not for riding horses into battle or roaming through muddy mercenary camps. They made a distinct sound that Guts knew well.

Content his friend had made it back home safely, Guts’ mouth quirked into a disgruntled smile.

“Selfish asshole...” he grumbled before rolling over in a huff and falling into a much easier sleep.

 

The following day, Guts fully intended to prod Griffith for details about his late night, but just before breakfast a wagon load of injured men made it back to camp and mayhem erupted. Two more groups arrived later that day and the two comrades barely had time to catch their breath, let alone speak with one another about personal matters. It carried on that way for two frantic days and nights.

While Griffith had planned extensively for a warm weather assault, doctoring this many men all at once in the blazing southern heat was a true first. It was proving to be a bigger challenge than even he could have anticipated. As it was he hadn’t managed to catch more than a few minutes sleep here and there in several days. He was fervently trying to keep one step ahead of the camp’s two biggest issues: Finding dry space for the injured men still trickling in and finding a way to keep clean bedding and bandages available for the medics. Without these he knew the entire medical ward could quickly devolve into a cesspool of festering rot.

He had arranged for a shipment of supplies to be delivered to the camp--courtesy of General Vorhees and his dear wife, Elaine--however, until those supplies arrived, things would be dicey.

Elsewhere in the camp, Guts had his own set of problems. The commotion had him more keyed up than the night before his first battle. His skills useless, his physical bulk nothing but a hindrance in the cramped ward, he was constantly finding himself in the way. Still, he hated seeing Griffith so bogged down and sought to help with the camp’s issues any way he could. He did the only thing he could think of and rounded up tents and blankets from the uninjured men. He’d surreptitiously given up his own tent and blankets in the process, though Casca had warned him against doing so.

An officer sleeping on open ground was going to reflect badly on Griffith. Or...something. Guts hadn’t really been listening. Truth was, he didn’t give a whore’s left tit how Griffith looked when _his_ men needed help. _Especially_ after watching the daft loon turn down the few supplies the Charcy brass had been willing to give them. In the end, Casca’s advice was about as useful to Guts as his tent and blankets in the oppressive heat.  

Guts might have been fine with the idea of sleeping outside, but Griffith, who had held back quietly to observe his two captains’ discussion unnoticed, was not so easily assuaged.

He’d happened upon Guts sleeping away from camp many times over the years, arms and cloak wrapped tightly around his oversized sword, and he'd never before felt a need to voice his concerns. That night however, things were different.  

Heat exhaustion compounded by two stressful days with barely any sleep allowed Griffith's internal mother-hen to win a landslide victory over his desire to maintain a professional distance from Guts. Before the man in question could slip away from the protective circle of firelight, he called out to him.

“Guts, do you have a moment?”

Guts halted. Griffith sounded tired. With a sigh, the larger man turned and shrugged his shoulders. The smell of rain and lightning were thick upon the air.

“Guess I could spare a few.”

The encroaching thunderheads that had been rolling in all evening were now almost upon them. The wind was picking up markedly. Men scrambled, hollering at each other as they raced to add more pegs to the tent tethers and cover up racks of swords and armor with oiled leather tarpaulins. The forest tossed her summer-green leaves about like thousands of stiffly starched festival banners, eager for the quenching rain to slake her parched roots.

“Seems we're in for quite a storm,” Griffith said, looking at the sky with concern. The wind tossed tendrils of his hair around his face and shoulders like will-o-wisps.

Guts crossed his arms and grunted with disinterest. “Looks that way.”

Griffith brushed his wayward hair behind his ears and smiled. “It won’t do, having you sleep out in the rain. You'd best bring your things into my tent. At least until yours can be returned to you.”

Guts lowered his eyes, Casca’s warning suddenly ringing in his ears. Was Griffith upset? He rubbed the back of his neck. “That was. . . a spur of the moment sort of thing. And it’s temporary, so, I’ll just sleep out--”

Griffith cut him off. “Come now my friend, your actions this evening were commendable and I won’t hear a word to the contrary.”  His eyes took on a more serious cast as he continued, “What’s more, a captain who sees to the wellbeing of his company deserves equal treatment from his commanding officer, does he not?”

Before Guts could protest, Griffith gave him a playful smirk that clearly announced he'd won. It left little room for debate on the subject, making Guts roll his eyes with half-hearted reluctance. Griffith’s good moods were damnably infectious.

Taking this as acquiescence, Griffith’s smile broadened and he childishly rocked back on his heels.

“Splendid! My apologies for pulling rank on you, but I’m nonetheless pleased it helped you see things my way.” He spun on the toe of his boot and left, calling back over his shoulder, “for _once_ !”

Externally, Griffith was in a jovial mood. Internally he was quite uncomfortable. He’d all but ordered Guts to his tent and it bothered him. _Why_ was the million coin question. Was he not simply keeping his most pivotal soldier out of the elements? Aiding a fellow officer? Being kind to a friend?

That was when, _it_ surfaced: the whispering, nameless, fear that had plagued him since childhood. Its words came, taunting and sharp;

_You want him._

Griffith clenched his jaw, his delicate-looking hands curling into white-knuckled fists at his sides as he slid gratefully into the seclusion of his tent. As an adolescent he’d learned to force the voice back, relegating it to a place deep within himself; a place that made his heart cling to the inside of his chest in terror. It was the same tormented place his mind went when he was using his body as a bargaining chip. As a result the voice and his conscious awareness had become rather fast bedfellows over the years.

Since Guts had joined the Hawks--since the moment Griffith had first laid eyes upon him, in fact--it had been growing harder and harder to keep the voice locked away. Every time Guts walked away from him it crept out, gnashing what he imagined to be awful yellow teeth. Sweetly, it would whisper to him: threats, riddles, predictions, all wrapped in his deepest fears and insecurities. His own personal demon slowly coaxing him to hell.

For three years Griffith had been sending Guts on missions only he could handle and he’d spent those three years steadying his nerves for reasons that had nothing to do with battle.

_Never again, if he falls. Not for you. Not with anyone._

He'd grit his teeth and bare it each time Guts went away and every time the fool returned with that reckless, self-assured grin on his face--as though he _hadn’t_ just narrowly escaped death--Griffith would be so filled with relief he’d feel silly. Of course Guts had come back. He would always come back. Griffith wanted to believe this, but rather than fostering trust and alleviating his inner turmoil, it only made the ache in his chest worse the next time duty forced them apart.

_A palmful of reasons for him to remain. You, sweet Prince, are not among them._

A few hours later, just as the light disappeared over the horizon, the storm arrived. In howling gusts it unleashed its fury upon the camp, driving rain and hail into the tents and covered supply wagons. The men had taken shelter, hunkering together in their cramped tents to ride out the storm. Hail thudded off armor and weapons tucked under waterproof leathers. Only the patrolmen remained active, checking the perimeter of the camp periodically for wild animals, intruders, or would-be thieves.

 

Tucked to one side of the main avenue of the camp were the officers quarters. Griffith’s tent was placed centrally among them. Inside the beautifully striped canvas panels it was dark, hot, and oppressively humid. Both Griffith and Guts had gone to their beds without night clothes in an effort to combat the heat and thick damp of the air. Though the rain was cold, it wasn’t helping cool the summer air much and Guts shifted uncomfortably in his sleep. His small camp pallet groaned under his weight.

Not far away in his own bed, Griffith watched him; blue eyes focused to an unnerving degree on Guts’ sleeping form. After being awake for so long, his body was running on pure adrenalin and he was unable to fall asleep. Arms wrapped around his painfully bruised knees, he’d been watching Guts sleep for hours.

It had started with passing glances, checking on his friend whenever he emerged from the realm of his own self-loathing thoughts. As his frustrations mounted, he’d grown absolutely transfixed by him. Even in the dark tent he could see the muscles of Guts’ sweat-dewed body shift and slide beneath his scarred bronze skin. He wondered how those scars would feel pressed under the softness of his own skin. Against his lips. Beneath his tongue. An involuntary shudder set his shoulders apart, blossoming outward and crawling like insects down his back bone. He gasped, wordless, and tore his gaze away. Squeezing his eyes tight, he clenched his teeth as he wrapped his arms tighter around his knees. He hid his face in his arms and tried to steady his breathing as bloody crescents bloomed under his fingernails. He focused intensely on the behelit pressed against his chest. The warm weight of it there was comforting.

 _You_ will _have what you want._

Nearly delirious from lack of sleep, Griffith contested the voice aloud.

“No...”

_You will take what is yours._

“ _No_.”

 _The privilege of a Prince, is the_ right _of a King. Take him._

A flash of lightning filled the interior of the tent, the booming crash of thunder startling Griffith from his bed.

“ _NO!_ ”

It triggered a flight response in him so powerful that he was flying across the tent before he knew what his feet were doing.

Startled awake by the boom of thunder, Guts sat up blearily, his hand already on his sword beside him. He opened his eyes just in time to see Griffith sprint past him so fast he nearly tripped over him. “What’s going-- _Hey_ ! Griffith? _Griffith!_ ”

But Griffith was already gone.


	3. Whore

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Posting a bit early. It is the year of our lord 2019 and goddamnit someone give Griffith a hug. The boi been through some shit y'all.  
> Enjoy.

The rain and hail pelted down in sharp, cold sheets against Griffith's naked body. It drenched his angelic curls, matting them against his scalp and shoulders. His behelit bounced and swung wildly against his chest. Lightning illuminated the darkness with disorienting flashes of snaking silver. Earthshaking claps of thunder punctuated the dark. And still, he ran. Over the driving rain, the pounding of his own heart, the crash of thunder, he could hear Guts’ frantic shouting in the distance behind him.

“ _Griffith!_ ”

He didn’t stop running. He couldn’t stop. He’d run forever if he had to. Anything to get away from--

_He calls to you..._

_He is yours..._

_Yours..._

Griffith’s hands pressed so hard over his ears that they hurt. It did nothing to block out the slithering voice in his head, coiling in dry, rasping loops around his consciousness. Running into the gnarled woods along the eastern side of camp, it wasn't long before his ankle caught under one of the myriad raised oak and maple roots, forced up by the shallow, rocky basin of the riverbed. He heard a sickening ‘SNAP!’ and a pain he’d never before experienced tore through his ankle. His hands shot out to break his fall, but the ground rushed up too quickly and he landed awkwardly on his right wrist. A burning jolt radiated up to his elbow, then everything went dark and still.

He lay prone in the muddy detritus of the forest floor, forearm and ankle both throbbing dully, the rain and hail needling his back. Stunned from his painful collision with the soggy earth, it took a moment for him to come to his senses. Teeth clenched, he fell into a passion of tears that quickly swelled from hopelessness to rage. He was so far beyond his breaking point he couldn’t even see it anymore. A scream of frustration and rage built to a crescendo in his chest, finally tearing out of him as he beat his fist into the mossy ground.

Tired.

God. He was just so tired.

Words that were not his own crept through his mind as it spiralled in dizzying loops from pain, from embarrassment, from exhaustion.

 _Vile_.  _Disgusting. Pathetic._

_Dirty._

_“I know!”_ He lamented, his voice cracking, _“For the love of God, please! I know!”_

The desire he felt for Guts was so intense it was like a demon trying to consume him. God help him, he lusted after his most trusted comrade the same way men had lusted after his own body since he’d been a boy. It sickened him that he could think of such a powerful, loyal man in such debasing ways, but that didn’t change how badly he wanted him. How he ached to touch him. Smell him. Taste him. Possess every part of him.

More than anything else, he longed to hear Guts’ heart beating in the frenzied rhythm of passion and know he was the one responsible, his hips rocking in pale contrast between his thick, bronze, thighs. Whether this illicit consummation was achieved through hours of tender talk and gentle exploration, surrounded by decadence and wine and furs, or a few minutes of frantic kissing and deft-handed fondling in a filthy supply tent, Griffith didn’t care. And why should he? Experience had taught him other men didn’t. 

He cringed. He wasn't proud of it, but seducing wealthy lechers and lonely courtiers' wives to get the things he needed had proved time and again to be a much kinder route than exchanging the lives of his men in battle. He didn't hold himself responsible for their deaths, but wouldn't see them die needlessly for his dream. If that meant putting his own body on the bargaining table now and then so be it.

His pale head jerked to one side, then the other, memories from the night he'd spent alone in Charcy swimming before his eyes. The night with the General and his wife. Blue silk bed clothes, expensive spirits in crystal glasses, a subdued fire crackling in a grand hearth accompanied the soft feel of Lady Vorhees' body beneath him. With her sagging thighs pressed around his hips, he’d rutted with her as vigorously as he dared. She was older, certainly, but the beauty of her youth had faded with abundant grace and she was attractive, despite her years. If her boar of a husband hadn’t joined them in bed halfway through, Griffith might have been able to finish with her.

His life had damn near flashed before his eyes when the General had entered the room. Hip deep in the man's wife he'd thought it was the end for him, but the aged, musclebound noble hadn't been angry in the slightest and it soon became apparent to Griffith that the General was as enamored of young men as he was of watching them fuck his wife. The complete lack of surprise exchanged between the couple had made that abundantly clear. The conveniently placed bottle of oil had confirmed it. The green glass sparkled on a nearby table like a beacon of depravity.

The General’s excitement had been near-palpable as he approached them and it had irked Griffith considerably. Her Ladyship's letter had made no mention of their clandestine rendezvous becoming a group affair, but, ever the accommodating social climber, Griffith’s mask of complicit enthusiasm didn't slip for even a moment.

His coy glance had emerged from beneath a slow flutter of dark lashes when the General had moved to touch him. It certainly wouldn’t have been Griffith's first time with a man, but when the General had asked as much--his desire to bed an unexplored virgin chiseled across his weathered old face--Griffith had lied like a whore in church. Enhancing the performance, he'd surrendered his cheek with sweet hesitancy to the old man's caress, closing his eyes for a moment before bashfully drawing away, 'catching' his unintentional act of impropriety.

_"My apologies, your Lordship! Please forgive me. I should leave for--"_

Bringing a finger to Griffith’s trembling lips he'd quieted what he foolishly took for nervous rambling. The oaf had taken the bait: hook, line and sinker. 

_“Hush now, it's alright. Please, do stay."_

_"My Lord General Vorh--"_

_"Enough with the formalities. We're well acquainted aren't we? Call me Roland."_

Griffith had gasped on purpose. _"Roland. . ."_ he repeated softly, his eyes evasively darting to one corner of the room, as though he'd said something risque.

The General had beamed lewdly. " _Yes_. _Go_ _od lad."_

This made Griffith shudder, though not for the reason the General seemed to think.

_"Would you look at that. The undefeated White Hawk, commander of thousands, trembling in my own bed! How astounding. How beautiful. Are you really so nervous, my boy? Why don't you lay back and let me ease your fears?"_

This little speech made Griffith want to throw up. Still, he'd persisted, coyly lowering his head to hide his eyes behind his dark lashes once more.

" _I couldn't_ _possibly. I. . . that is to say I_ _'_ _ve never been with--If anyone were to find out--”_

The General's hand had come back to his cheek then.

_"There's nothing for you to be concerned with, my beautiful hawk. Neither I, nor Elaine, shall breathe a word to anyone. It will be our little secret. Now..."_

It was then that Griffith had been forced to bury his disgust in the dark void that filled his heart with terror, exchanging it for more appropriate responses. He wordlessly invited further exploration by revealing his eyes with an upward tilt of his head and the General descended upon him with ravenous intent. Surprised gasps of pleasure, breathy moans and reluctant glances that silently begged for more were all Griffith let slip as the old man fondled and kissed him.

Playing the part of the earnest youth on the cusp of a forbidden sexual awakening was something Griffith had become rather good at over the years. Even Lady Vorhees had been taken in by his performance. Lips parted in lewd fascination, she'd pressed her fingers between her legs as she watched her husband pleasure him.

Through all of this, Griffith hadn't been able to get over how rude it was for the ‘intrusion’ of General Vorhees to have been planned ahead of time and not included in their initial negotiation. It was an inconsiderate and unsavory way to handle a business transaction, to say the very least. He would have asked for twice as much.

The effects of this on his mood were mitigated somewhat by the careful attention paid by the General to his comfort and pleasure. The old man had certainly learned a thing or two over the years and was skilled with both his fingers and his mouth, both of which he'd used with unrestrained enthusiasm. 

To Griffith's surprise--and neverending disgrace--thoughts of Guts servicing him on his knees had actually caused him to climax in the General's mouth. The resulting gasp as he realized too late what was about to happen was choked off by a brief, throaty cry of pleasure. It was the only unscripted reaction he gave all night.

Afterward he'd let the General mount him from behind while he in turn fucked the man's wife. Or tried to. It had been an awkward position to maintain, and had absolutely killed his armor-bruised knees even with the feather-stuffed bed beneath them. The penetration hadn't actually been the worst part for once, though paired with his unplanned climax, it had been all Griffith could do to keep himself hard enough to, as quoted in Her Ladyship's letter, 'pleasure her like a stallion does a mare.' An ambitious request on her part, but in the end he'd managed to deliver as promised.

The rain slashed back into his realm of perception and his disgraceful memories gradually drifted away to settle into that deep, black, horrible place he dared not think about.

_A king and a whore. How curious you are, O’ Desirous One._

He was a filthy wretch, no better than a sewer rat doing whatever it could to stay above the rising flood of putrid water. He was so repulsed by his own actions over the years that he'd come to loathe sex. He didn’t understand it as anything more than an abstract product to be exchanged for power and wealth. When it came to Guts though his notions grew frustratingly convoluted; a melange of conflicting feelings and fractious ideals. What he _should_ want, what he _should_ do all went off the battlements as it were, when he was face to face with the warm, dark eyes of his most beloved comrade. Out of the melee, Griffith was able to pull one thing with concrete certainty: He wanted Guts more than anything else in the world. More than money. More than power. More than his kingdom.

Sex with him wouldn't be like it was with the others. Griffith hadn't cared about any of those men. Hadn't desired them. Worried over them. Missed them when they went away.

No.

He just _knew_ it would be different. Just how different though, he really couldn't say. He tried not to dwell on such improprieties under normal circumstances. The pain in his wrist and ankle swiftly reminded him that these were _not_ normal circumstances and that a suitable distraction might actually do him some good. For that reason alone he let his mind wander to more libidinous territory.

The General bringing him to orgasm while he’d been thinking about Guts had been a first, and it had given him a lot to ponder. What path would such an encounter with Guts take in reality? Of course, Griffith’s natural inclination was to lead, and in a sexual setting of his own choosing he presumed this would not change. He had fantasized many times about pressing Guts down into the sheets and making him cry out into the pillows. He felt he had enough experience to know how best to go about bringing his stalwart companion pleasure, and of course the strong desire to take on the responsibility in the first place, but, if his friend wanted to do things...differently, what then?

His initial reaction was a resounding no, but the more he thought about it, the more he realized it wouldn’t be the same as with all the others. Those old men had seen him the same way they saw the women in their tiny microcosms of influence; chattel to be bought, used and discarded. With Guts it would be gentle, or so he hoped. There would be no hot, sour breath against his neck, no press of flabby, wrinkled skin against his body. Griffith shuddered in disgust, wanting to claw at his skin as the feeling crawled over him like an army of familiar oozing slugs.

No. Not with Guts. With him it would be, perhaps, as it was meant to be when feelings of love were exchanged along with the base carnalities of sex. If that was the case, if Guts wanted to make love to him in _that_ way _,_ he would allow it. He would freely give him the most intimate, most personal part of himself; a privilege other men had paid a king’s ransom for. Admittedly, the idea was new and...stimulating.

 _Then again_ , he reasoned, he’d seen Guts nude and knew he was fairly well endowed. How different would it _really_ be? Fantasies overwrought with romantic sentiment were all well and good to think about, but they wouldn’t change the physical restrictions and reactions of the human body and in Griffith’s experience, sex with men _half_ Guts' size had been uncomfortable. At _best_.

He grimaced and counted his lucky stars that none of his past male partners had been so blessed as Guts' in that regard. Particularly so for those that had not been gentle with him and left him torn and bruised.

Still, he knew there were men out there who took pleasure in such stimulation. A reconnaissance mission for a border dispute had taken them to a male brothel for information and he'd learned a fair bit more about the subject than he ever wanted to know in the first place. Those men and boys were _not_ bashful and made him look like an absolute prude by comparison. It was entirely possible therefore that he was simply doing something wrong that was making sex so unnecessarily painful.

Perhaps he had a book somewhere in his library back home that could offer him some guidance on how to make it more enjoyable. Probably not, although the idea was amusing. The notion of seducing Guts far enough and often enough that he might conduct research to that end, enough to pen his own book on the subject for others to learn from, was as laughable as it was improbable. He knew Guts prefered women.

The two of them had not touched much on the subject of sex, but Guts had expressed interest in a few women over the years they'd been together. He'd never pursued any to Griffith's knowledge but that didn't mean he hadn't in the past. Beyond that he knew very little. Their conversations always seemed to naturally circumvent when the topic came about organically and Griffith found himself immensely curious about how Guts would perform as a lover. He was especially interested to know what his sexual persona would manifest as with another man; more dominant or more submissive? It was difficult to say. He was a loyal soldier though, admittedly, he didn't follow orders very well. 

If it turned out he was more dominant, and wanted to take him in that most intimate of ways, would Guts prefer to enjoy him the same way so many others had? On his back, legs tucked up to his chest as he bit his knuckle and whimpered softly like a virgin on her wedding night? Griffith audibly cringed. No, not for Guts. That didn’t seem right at all. 

Perhaps then, Guts would want him on his knees, face pressed into the pillows so he could pretend he was some pretty girl? Close, Griffith thought, but it wasn’t quite right either. Though perhaps if…

Yes, now _that_ was far more plausible.

It would happen at night, in the tower library just beyond Griffith's chambers in Wyndham castle. The smell of wine and brandy would be thick in the air, on their breath. Soft words would inevitably lead to a first, hesitant embrace and devolve rapidly into a blur of kissing and explorative touching.

After finding a shred of confidence, Guts would tug his boots and trousers off. Bend him, face down, over the desk. The ink pot would overturn; get in his long white hair; stain his shirt. Guts would fumble awkwardly. Try to clean it up. Try and apologize. This would break the mood momentarily, lightening it with some humour and some more kissing. Ultimately though, he would invite Guts to ignore the mess by spreading his legs apart, exposing himself like a cheap tavern harlot. Guts’ battle-callused hands would pause, then.  Tentatively grip his hips. Slowly, that grip would tighten. Painfully so, but Griffith wouldn’t complain.

He imagined Guts would handle him much as he did his sword: with confident, firm, precision. A far cry from the pitiful groping of weak old men Griffith was used to. Guts would hesitate, surely. Try to think. Try to reason, but he would unobtrusively push the lamp oil into Guts’ hands. Glance at him over one shoulder with lidded, eager eyes. He knew Guts would not be able to hold back after that and--

He gasped sharply in pain. 

Swelling parts of his lower anatomy had pressed into the rough needles and twigs of the forest floor. It surprised him. Even with the pain in his ankle and wrist, the howling cold of the storm, his body was growing aroused. Griffith marvelled at the sensations like an alchemist evaluating an experiment. They didn’t manifest often.

Now, he found himself eager for such an encounter with Guts and immediately began laughing like a madman. The entirety of his current situation was so absurd it boggled his mind. What was he doing? What was he _thinking_? There would be no rendezvous in the tower. No touching. No kissing. Nothing. His heart sank like an anchor. Guts was a beautiful dream, not someone truly attainable outside his own imagination. To think otherwise was pure folly.

His laughter was short lived, dropping quickly to a sorrowful moan of regret. Disgust. Sadness. His bloodshot eyes burned with the desire to shed tears his body had run out of. His chest heaved.

Luckily he didn’t have to dwell on things much longer as an avalanche of thudding footfalls barreled toward him. Louder and louder they grew, until,

“ _Griffith!_ What in the hell--are you _crazy_!?”

As Guts slid to his knees at his side, Griffith was so overcome with embarrassment he tried to get away, but his frozen body was woefully uncooperative on that point. The very same calloused hands from his imagination grasped him and began assessing him for injuries. The rain covered up the small gasp of delight that escaped him as reality briefly blurred with fantasy. As Guts continued to touch him he finally realized how cold he was. Guts’ hands were like branding irons on his skin.

Guts swore under his breath. “You _idiot!_ You’re freezing! Do you want to get sick and die?”

He rubbed his commander's shoulders vigorously, trying to warm his frigid skin.

 _'What a poignant question’_ , Griffith thought. _Did_ he want to die? At that moment, embroiled in what he assumed was some sort of enervated delirium, he honestly didn’t know. Maybe it would be for the best. He groaned weakly, his cheek still pressed into the dank leaf litter. It smelled of sweet rot and death. Very fitting.

“You came for me . . . .” his words sounded detached, out of place, even to him. Like an afterthought. He was seldom so aware of his own voice. “I’ve injured it,” He gestured insubstantially to his wrist. “And my ankle. I think it’s--

“I know!” Guts snapped. “I can see that just shut up for a second and let me think!” A lengthy pause swallowed the next few moments as his mind caught up with his mouth. Finally, with more compassion Guts said, “We need to get you next to a fire. You'll catch your death out in this weather.”

This brought a peculiar smile to Griffith’s face, though thankfully it was hidden by leaves.

“What were you thinking, running out in this?” Guts demanded as he leaned over Griffith, using his own body to shelter his injured friend from the worst of the rain as he figured out the best way to carry him back without making things worse.

After a pregnant pause, Griffith shifted slowly, this time making it onto his one good elbow. His erection had thankfully dissipated. Reticently, he said, “I had a nightmare.”

Guts grew solemn. He knew all about nightmares. He shifted as Griffith tried to get up, hands hovering over him with concern.

“Are you sure that’s a good idea? Here, I'll--”

“I’m alright, Guts. Thank you.”

Guts frowned. Griffith was most definitely _not_ alright. He was shivering and his words sounded strange and distant.

“Come on, would you just let me--”

“I _said_ I’m alright!”

The silence around them thickened, despite the howling wind. Griffith rarely raised his voice to anyone, least of all toward Guts.

Griffith gave a sigh of regret. “My apologies. That was uncalled for.” He tried to get up. “I’m just--” His arm gave out and he splashed down onto the muddy leaves with a dull gasp of pain.

“God you're a stubborn fool. Anyone ever tell you that?” Guts growled, adjusting him gingerly as he prepared to lift him into his arms.

“You have, as a matter of fact,” Griffith laughed weakly. “Many times.”

Being mindful of Griffith’s injuries, Guts picked him up. Moss, leaves, and bits of unknown forest rot clung to his pale skin. Guts was surprised; he weighed more than he ever would have guessed. Even so he was able to hold him without too much effort.

Griffith cursed sharply under his breath as pain shot through his injured limbs, worst of all his ankle. His skin burned were their bodies touched.

Guts was surprised to hear such vulgarity from the otherwise sophisticated tongue of the Knight Commander.

Griffith was mortified by the obscenity and in fact the entire situation. He wanted to be put down and left there to die, though he remained silent on this point. He hadn’t enough energy to complain. Or keep his eyelids open, or...

“Guts. . .It’s the strangest thing. . . I feel. . . so...” He felt himself leaning, drooping down against Gut’s firm, warm, shoulder. He was cold. And tired. So very...very...

Guts shook his head, his eyes circling in a huge arc upward. Griffith had passed out in his arms.

“Damned fool. _.._ ”

With a strange feeling of contented relief he chose to ignore, Guts sighed and hurried with his sleeping cargo toward camp.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If this touched you in your heart (or downstairs fun-house) toss me a kudo fam. Or tell me all about it in the comments. I'll read it dramatically aloud to myself and then think about it, and you, intensely. For hours. In the dark.  
> Sweet dreams.


	4. Absolution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TW: fucked up shit y'all. Corpses and vomit and implied sexual torture/rape. Isn't Berserk fun?

_Wake up,_ _o' Lord of Desire._

_They're ready for you._

Blearily Griffith came to, head throbbing, ears buzzing like he'd  just taken a sword blow to the helmet. At first all he saw were looming dark figures enshrouded in swirling amber mist. As his vision spiralled slowly into focus, his surroundings emerged more clearly. He was situated in the center of a broad forest clearing. The impossibly tall trees surrounding the clearing shot straight up more than 100 feet before branches emerged from their trunks. The bark was black and pulsating in a steady heartbeat rhythm. The branches packed together tightly, forming a thick crown. Above the crown, far in the hazy distance sat the illuminated crystal form of a magnificent white castle. His eyes focused on it, unblinking, until they burned.

Cold. He was so cold. He could see his breath misting out in slow rolling plumes. He tore his eyes from the castle and wrapped his arms around himself, shivering. He was naked, his hair dripping wet rivulets down his body. They seemed to glow atop his pale nakedness in the red moonlight of the clearing.

Beneath him was a smooth stone slab that was much warmer than the air around him. He rolled to the edge, peering cautiously over the side. Roughly the size of a banquet table, the slab floated several feet above a stone platform. Or at least, it felt like it was floating. Maybe it was just him. His body was filled with so much anxiety that he could see it pulsing at the edges of his vision.

_They're here, my King. Won't you welcome them? They've come so far. Come just for you._

He jerked back from the edge as people began to spill out of the pulsating bark of the trees like maggots from a wound.

“What--?”

They approached in shambling groups, jostling one another sluggishly and pressing in around the stone dais.

Reaching out to his prostrate body they whispered and cried out blessings to him. Tighter and tighter they pressed, reaching, grasping, clawing.

“Get away from me!” he shouted, then curled on his side as tightly as he could to avoid their hands. They pushed in from all sides. There was nowhere for him to go. A young woman kissed his hand and he gasped, jerking it away. Two men grabbed at his hair. An old woman reached for his calf. All around him there was a din of fanatical praying and singing. Begging for blessings, for protection, for absolution.

Overhead, leathery flapping filled the air as grotesque winged beasts descended upon the clearing. The gargantuan creatures screamed and shrieked as they spiralled through an endless sea of blood-red clouds. They swooped down over him and he screamed, their razor sharp crescent claws just barely missing his vulnerable flesh. What was happening? Where was he? His heart raced, panicking like a herd of horses cornered in a blind canyon by something wild and hungry.

A sharp tug at his behelit startled him. One of the worshippers was trying to take it and he gave a half-yell as he clutched it defensively to his chest. It burned his hand like a red hot coal and, startled by the pain, he dropped it. It burned a parabolic path as it swung like a pendulum, back and forth along his chest. It was then that the worshippers jumped upon the stone.

They were so swift, so agile, he didn’t even have time to react before they were piling onto his limbs, his body, holding him down. His behelit became trapped between him and the chest of a one legged old man laying across his chest. It burned viciously, flaring with an intense red light. The old man shrieked, high and unsettling as his clothes burned and his skin sizzled, along with Griffiths, under the searing amulet. They both screamed in agony before the man scrambled off. He fell off the edge of the dais at an odd angle and his neck snapped as he collided with the stone platform below.

Further out into the sea of praying fanatics, gnarled dead hands began to materialize. They reached over and through the crowd. Those they touched dropped to the ground for a moment, rising soon after as shambling corpses. As he watched, mouth agape with horror, one of the worshippers fondled his genitals. He was pinned down so hard his circulation felt like it was being strangled and he could do nothing but let it happen. At the same time, a corpse without any teeth gummed at his ankle like a dog worrying on a bone. It felt like it was being crushed repeatedly between heavy stones and his resulting scream transcended one of pain. It was primordial terror given voice; suffering in its purest form, let loose from him in a high, panicked, rush of sound.

_“Let me up! Stop this let me--!"_

Keening grunts and cries accompanied his thrashing attempts to shift the bodies holding him down. Then a crash of thunder booming over head paralyzed him with fear. Panic-stricken he watched as a large muscular body descended from the clouds. It was a male form: dark-haired and bronze skinned. Griffith's heart sank to his feet then clawed frantically up his throat to his mouth. It was Guts.

Great black tendrils covered in lidless crimson eyes held his friend’s limbs. Spread his legs apart. Some of them caressed his body too gently for Griffith's liking: firm and attentive, like a lover.

_Your prize._

The leathery dead hand grasping him tightened; stroked. Played. With a flush of embarrassment Griffith realized he was beginning to grow hard beneath its unwelcome ministrations. He begged for it to end as he broke down, weeping in frustration as his begging went unheeded.

_Your prize, my King._

He forced himself to look harder, blinking through the tears and pain. Shock filled him when he saw it. He tried to look away, but the grizzled hands grabbed his cheeks, forced him to look. Guts had very clearly been violated, blood dripped down his leg in thick red runnels, his delicate flesh torn like crepe paper.

Griffith had to breath through gritted teeth and swallow several times to keep his nausea at bay.

His prize? What did that mean? What did any of this mean? It was impossible, all of it! He wasn’t--he would never--!

The faceless mob shifted without warning, releasing Griffith’s numb limbs. Writhing and bending at distressing, unnatural angles, their grey flesh began to rot. They scratched and pulled, peeled it from their bones and laid it onto the dais like sacrificial offerings. Corpses in the back, unable to reach the stone, threw their ‘offerings’ from various distances. The pieces splattered all around, splashing sickening dark ooze and thicker things over Griffith’s pale body. He screamed. Then the smell got in his mouth and he gagged. The feeling of it was horrible, but the smell, the taste, was worse. Once he started gagging he couldn’t stop. He rolled to the side, through the blanket of stinking rot as best he could, vomiting over the side of the stone platform. To his disgusted horror, several of the corpses immediately dove down to devour the contents of his stomach off the rocky ground. He dry heaved and tore his eyes away.

The terror he was experiencing was overwhelming. His mind was rapidly fading away in an attempt to be free of it.

_Are you not satisfied? Their flesh feeds the Beast. The one called Dream._

Two more dark tendrils appeared, thicker and longer than the others by half. No eyes covered them, just smooth aubergine skin and rough spines. They moved towards Gut’s exposed, violated, body with menacing purpose. The smaller, eye-covered tendrils twisted reverently, moving to let the spined ones pass. Guts felt them as they reached his thighs and struggled weakly against his bonds like a man defeated. His head hung listlessly, tears dripping down his cheeks and onto his chest.

Griffith's heart was being crushed. He had to do something. He had to try. He flailed and struggled violently calling on a strength he didn’t know he had, until finally he broke free. He scrambled over the mass of bodies, slipping and sliding in puddles of God only knew what. The exposed bones of the horde bruised and cut him yet still he ran; reached for Guts. The corpses looked on with empty sockets for a moment, as though not sure what to do.

_Stop him. The King knows not what he does._

Following this order, all within reach piled onto Griffith, clinging to him with stiff, fleshless fingers. Griffith struggled against their hard, wet, embrace. His ankle was being crushed by something below him he could not see.

“ _GUTS!”_ he screamed, _“God no, please!_ _Stop!”_

A pair of eyes suddenly flashed into view beside Gut’s shoulder, two glistening rubies in a mist of swirling dark. The corpses prostrated themselves at once in deep reverence, their lipless, tongueless mouths somehow chanting in low unison: _“Praise be, the Lord of Desire.”_

Despite being free to move, Griffith remained frozen in place. The eyes of this so called “Lord” locked with his and a realization hit him like a suckerpunch to the gut. They looked like his own eyes. They weren’t his beautiful robin’s egg blue and the pupil was long and thin, like those of a reptile or bird. Those red bird’s eyes bored into him like unblinking daggers as the rest of the face emerged slowly out of the black gloom. Enshrouded in dark leather, it shone pale and sickly in the red-light of the forested hellscape. It was thin and ghastly, what Griffith could only describe as demonic. A wave of nausea overcame him as he realized it was his own face staring back at him, emotionless and unblinking. Those unnatural eyes, the dark, dead lips.

The dam containing his sanity finally cracked and his mind was swept away into a sea of pain and despair. He collapsed wordlessly to his knees amongst the horde of praying corpses, forced to look on helplessly as an elongated black hand, each finger too long and tipped in a vicious claw, descend posessively over Gut’s shoulder. From his collar bone, it moved slowly, purposefully, down toward his navel. Still, the eyes did not blink. Still lower it reached _,_ before seizing Gut’s groin like an eagle snagging a rodent in it's cruel talons. Blood spurted out of the wounds and Guts cried out hoarsely, pitfuly writhing like some frail, broken thing. It was heartbreaking. The swordsman, normally so full of determination to go on living, was so far gone he couldn't even fully react to pain.

The dark vicious creature responsible stared into Griffith's soul.

_One fate. One future. One dream._

Griffith could take no more. He shot upright, screaming so hard he could taste his heart beat in his mouth. His bangs were fluid against his forehead, drenched in sweat. His eyes flew open and he expected to see Guts before him, being violated by those horrifying tendrils of flesh, the curved claws of that black hand slicing into his--

He blinked, bewildered.

The red horrors were gone. The dark Lord was gone too. And the corpses. Everything. He looked around frantically, gulping air in painful heaves. The silence was deafening, broken only by the gentle flutter of blue and white canvas. A mirror sat across the tent, and the shirt draped over one corner of it fluttered in the breeze. It was his shirt. He remembered putting it there after--

Birds chirping nearby distracted him.

Taking a deep breath he shut his eyes and unconsciously clasped his behelit. He could smell the river, the trees, the sharp, earthen scent of horses and men. He squeezed the egg like a rosary until he felt grounded enough to open his eyes.

The view was the same. Nothing out of the ordinary. Just his tent. Had he...dreamt the whole thing? But it had felt so real. He’d been so afraid. That thing...it...had his face. His eyes. Never before had he dreamt such horrible things. The look in those eyes as he--that _thing_ with his face--had dug mercilessly into Guts’--

A cold fear sliced down his spine out of nowhere and he jolted, muscles twitching.  It wracked his body with a deep-rooted shudder. Those red bird’s eyes flashed before his and a vicious sting struck him acutely in the center of his chest. He swatted at his nightshirt trying to kill whatever insect had bitten him but it only made the sting turn to a furious burning. He ripped open the neck ties, eyes searching for whatever was hurting him and he stared, body frozen by the cold dread of disbelief.

An ovular purple bruise sat in the center of his chest, framing his behelit like a dark halo.

It was only a dream.

Wasn't it?


	5. Awakening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Swamped at work tomorrow so you guys get an early chapter.

A loud cough in the doorway startled Griffith half to death. His head swung wildly toward the voice and found Guts standing in the opening of the tent, one eyebrow raised sky high. He held a wooden bowl in each hand.

Griffith's head dropped with incredible relief. “Guts…”

A thousand happy memories flashed through Griffith's mind. Laughter shared between them as they splashed each other in a fortress courtyard; Guts drunkenly recalling a successful field maneuver in ridiculous pantomime as they sat around a fire; proud battle-cries echoing in unison as they raced, flank to flank, into the enemies front lines. Perfect moments that intermingled with the remnant horror of his nightmare. The things he’d seen: Guts’ violated body, the bloody corpses, the piercing red eyes. His own eyes. He shook his head and forced a smile. It was a nightmare. Nothing more.

“Good--” Griffith hesitated, looking out the tent flap to discern the time of day,“--morning?”

Guts scoffed and sat down on the roughly-hewn chair beside Griffith’s bed. “Afternoon, actually. Here.”

He set one of the bowls down, then reached beside the bed to put a board across Griffith’s lap. He set the remaining bowl on it; thick rabbit stew was heaped inside, a crude fire cake still covered in bits of ash, was crumbled over top. It was only then that Griffith became aware of how hungry he was. He muttered his thanks and with his uninjured arm, carefully dug in. As he ate he tried to get a better idea of what had happened. He remembered running through the storm, being cold, and...pain. His arm. His ankle. He reflexively tried to bend it and fire shot up his leg. He gave a strangled yelp and damn near pitched his food off his lap.

“Uh, hey,” Guts cautioned awkwardly, “Don’t do--” he gestured in vague summation with his spoon, “--whatever that was. You really messed your foot up--ankle. Whatever. You hurt yourself.”

Griffith would have laughed at his friend's jumbled explanation if he hadn’t been dealing with the fading pulsations of pain from his poorly timed movement. “How did I hurt--?” 

“Like an idiot, that's how.”

Wholly unimpressed by this assessment, Griffith leveled him with a flat look.

Guts’ upper body puffed and tensed defensively. “Well you _did. Y_ ou ran stark naked through a dark forest and hurt yourself pretty badly in the process, what would _you_ call it?”

Resignation spread over Griffith’s face and he rolled his eyes. “I hate to admit it, but you have a point.” He remembered the hard tree root that had caught his ankle and the smell of the forest floor as it crashed up into his face. The heat of Guts’ hands on his freezing skin and the press of his cheek against Guts’ shoulder. A blush settled faintly over the apples of his cheeks and he looked away sheepishly. “I fainted too, didn’t I?”

“Like a lady on a hot day.”

“And you...carried me back here?”

Guts looked away and Griffith swore he was stifling a laugh. “You’re a lot heavier than you look,” Guts grinned. “But don’t worry I didn’t tell anyone about any of that. Your masculinity remains intact.”

“Well that’s what’s most important,” Griffith said, voice dripping with sarcasm.

Still eating, Guts cocked his head with a smile and flicked his brows up once, as though Griffith had only just figured out something he himself had known for ages.

“How many hours have I been asleep?” Griffith asked.

Guts looked up, calculating. “About three days I'd reckon.”

Griffith’s jaw fell. “ _Three days_? Why on earth didn’t someone wake me?”

Guts swallowed his bite and jabbed toward him with his spoon. “Because Casca said she’d use her bare hands to castrate anyone who disturbed you. She looked after things while you were out, made sure we didn’t burn the camp down.” He smiled, reminiscing on all her barked orders and snarky commands. She wasn’t the most gentle commander, but the men respected her and followed her orders without much griping. “I hate to say it, Griffith, but she’s got a pretty good head on her shoulders when it comes to that sort of thing. For a woman, I mean.”

“A head for what sort of thing? Leadership? Or castrating men with her bare hands?” Griffith accompanied this question with a cheeky grin.

Guts returned it with a laugh. “Bit of both I’d say.”

A comfortable silence followed as they both finished their food. Finally, when bowls and board had been set on the ground, Griffith asked the question Guts knew would come up sooner or later.

“And the injured men? How have they been faring?”

Guts stilled. “We’ve lost thirteen since you went down.” Averting his eyes, he crossed his arms over his chest. He had more bad news. “Xavier says there are two or three more he doesn’t think will pull through. Benoit, Henri. Maybe Lars.”

Griffith swallowed bitterly, his good hand gripping the sheet. “It saddens me to hear that. Truly." Henri was a promising young recruit, only a year or so older than Rickert by his own approximation. He’d joined the Hawks the season before and Rickert had taken a shining to him immediately. The two had been nigh inseparable ever since. Griffith saw his own friendship with Guts mirrored in the endearing antics of the two young comrades, something he’d miss terribly if Henri did pass away.

“Could have been worse, Griffith.” Guts offered, his tone reassuring. “A lot worse.”

The gentle rustling of leaves filled the heavy silence that overtook them. Both men sat mired in their own sober thoughts before--

_“Griffith!”_

They both jumped, startled by the happy cry. Neither had time to react before Rickert came flying across the tent into Griffith’s arms. “You’re awake! _”_ He exclaimed, voice cracking. “I’m so glad!”

“ _Hey!_ ” Guts shouted, reaching for Rickert’s collar. “Watch it! He's hurt you rowdy little--”

Griffith put up his hand and, straining from under the growing weight of the young man, said, “It’s fine, Guts, really I--”

“You’ve been asleep for so long, we were all worried you’d never wake up!” Rickert hugged Griffith tighter. Griffith didn’t really mind, even though his wrist was throbbing from the jostle. He knew Rickert looked up to him, that he saw him not just as a commander, but as something of an older brother, or father figure, and he indulged him to that affect now and then. Less often now that Rickert was getting older, but there were times that called for such things no matter what age a man was. This, Griffith felt, was one of them.

Guts just rolled his eyes and looked uncomfortable. Displays of affection always seemed to have that effect on him, Griffith had noticed. With a hug and pat on the back, Griffith shifted Rickert’s weight to one side, indicating it was time for him to move off. Rickert hugged him back briefly then scooted to the edge of the bed. He carefully stayed just out of grabbing range of Guts, in case he tried to remove him from the bed completely.

“It must have been hard on all of you,” Griffith remarked, straightening the blankets.

Rickert nodded, but waved his hand. “Yeah, but it’s okay though! We got along fine for the most part…” His face went a bit green, like he was remembering something scary. “Casca can be a real slave driver.”

Guts stretched out and gave the back of Rickert's head a smack before pulling him into a headlock and ruffling his short blonde hair.

“Guts!” Rickert gasped, struggling to break free from the larger soldier, “Hey come on--! No fair!”

Griffith watched them, hand playing idly with a stand of his hair. It was comforting to see them so happy. Compared to the world of his nightmare, the scene was something truly beautiful. Not in the way that paintings or sculptures were beautiful, but the way things comforting and reliable were; like knowing the sun would always rise no matter what dark depths the night plunged to. He felt in that moment, a renewed sense of purpose, like he could do anything. In fact everything seemed perfect, except for one thing: Casca was missing. With a peculiar frown, Griffith looked around, as though expecting to see her materialize from thin air. She was always worrying over him when he was injured or stressed and he figured she would have appeared to fuss over him by now. “Where _,_ might I ask, is Casca?”

Rickert broke out of the headlock and scrambled just out of Guts’ reach. Proudly he said, “She went with the General’s _personal_ guardsmen to the supply depot in Burgess!”

“Burgess?” Griffith’s raised brows demanded further clarification. “With the General’s--”

“Oh you won’t believe it!” Rickert said, excitement barely contained. “General Vorhees was so impressed with our performance he sent away for an extra load of supplies just for us!”

Griffith tensed and Guts’ eyes narrowed on him critically. “That’s wonderful,” he replied softly. “I’ll be sure to send him a letter of gratitude for his selfless generosity.” His jaw tightened just a little.

“Oh!” Rickert cried, reaching into his weather-beaten gambeson. He dug out a slightly crumpled letter. “I almost forgot. The General’s messenger left this for you Griffith.” He handed it over and sat back on a stool near the flap of the tent.  “Casca told me to keep it safe for you until you woke up, just in case she wasn’t back to give it to you herself.”

Griffith appraised the battered letter. It was on very fine white parchment and had a purple wax seal embossed with a lion’s paw. Carefully he cracked it open and read the brief contents. His spine crawled. It was a flowery commendation of his sexual performance scrawled in the General’s own hand. At the end of the note was an open ended offer to visit the couple's manor in Charcy whenever he desired and that they hoped he was as taken with them as they were with him.

Bile clawed up Griffith’s throat. _The colossal oaf,_ he thought. If something of this nature were intercepted by the wrong people it could ruin them both. The room faded and his eyes widened into distant pools of blue fury as he stared at the paper.

“What’s it say?” Rickert asked eagerly. Like most of the Hawks he couldn’t read, so it was always interesting to hear others do so.

Jerked back into the room, Griffith smiled as he looked up, the letter carefully folded in his lap.  “Not much at all I'm afraid.” He indicated to the letter. “It’s a commemoration of the services rendered by the Hawks and brings our contract formal closure. A standard formality.” It wasn't _exactly_ a lie.

“Oh...well, was there anything about my company in it?” Rickert asked eagerly. “Anything about...Henri?”

Griffith shook his head no and gave the young man a sympathetic look.

Rickert’s mood deflated considerably.

“I must confess,” Griffith said, diverting the conversation, “I’m still somewhat unsure as to where Casca has gone. You mentioned Burgess, but, why did she accompany the General’s men there?” His smile was inquisitive and wonderfully charming.

Guts raised his hand about to say something but a sharp groan of pain came out first. “Agh--damn shoulder!”

Griffith watched with mild concern as the larger man rolled the offending arm a few times, working out the kink. Rickert piped up in his place, his spirit reviving by the second. “A messenger brought the letter two days ago with the good news from the General. Casca volunteered to take half her company to Burgess with the General’s men and escort the supply wagon back to us.”

Guts cleared his throat and added, “Said she didn’t trust the Midland soldiers to deliver it all and on _that_ we agreed.”

“That’s Casca for you isn’t it?” A fond smile played over Griffith’s lips. “Well, I just hope I’m able to get up and about before she returns or I fear she’ll never let me out of this bed.”

Rickert laughed. Guts did not. With a shake of his dark head he muttered, “Not likely. Xavier said you’ll be off your feet for quite a while.”

Before Griffith could express his sorrow over this depressing revelation, an unknown voice interrupted. "Rick? Hey, Rickert! You in there?” A dark-haired soldier poked his head into the tent. “I knew it,” He hissed in an irritated whisper. “Quit lollygaggin’ we're supposed to be out choppin’--” He froze, startled to see the Commander awake and staring right at him. He ran a hand nervously through his hair, trying to tame its wild peaks and curls. Hastily he bid Griffith a quick recovery before grabbing Rickert by the back of his gambeson.

Rickert waved quickly as he was dragged out of the tent. “Get well soon, Griffith!”

Griffith was happy as he waved back, though it faded around the edges after Rickert left, leaving something of a depressed hole in his chest.

Guts looked at him for a tense moment, then looked away. “Loud little shit isn’t he?” Guts said.

Griffith let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding, grateful to Guts for banishing the odd silence that had cropped up between them. "While I don't agree with your choice of words,” he sighed, “I admit he can be a touch boisterous at times.” Griffith tilted his head back, closing his eyes and taking in a deep, calming breath. He let it out slowly, relief washing over him. “I’m glad he’s in high spirits today though. Given the circumstances I expected he’d be acting quite the opposite. I know I certainly would be if you--” Catching himself in a moment of sentimentality he’d rather Guts not be privy to, he quickly finished with, “--or Casca, were injured so severely.”

“Like that time I nearly bled out because some asshole decided to take a stab at my heart?”

Not missing a beat Griffith gave Guts a cocky look. “I never intended to hit your heart. My sword went precisely where I meant it to and no further.”

Guts grinned at him, letting him know he was just teasing. That it was all in the past.

Griffith smiled back, but found the mood had shifted.

Guts gave him a solemn glance; a quick flash of dark eyes weighed down with a heart-rending sadness Griffith couldn't have put into words if he tried. He tried to say something comforting, but Guts interrupted with a loud cough.

“Good talk,” he said abruptly, picking up the empty bowls. “Better get going. Tonights patrols aren’t going to organise themselves.”

Guts got up and shook his head like trying to shake a strange mood or thought out of it.  His emotions had taken a strange turn after they spoke of old times. His eyes darted erratically and he was giving off the energy of a cornered wolf. He avoided Griffith's gaze. “Xavier asked to be told when you woke up. Said you’ll need some special tea for pain. I’ll send him over to see you.”

“Guts?”

When Guts ignored him, turning instead toward the tent flap, Griffith reached out and grabbed his arm.

Guts wheeled instinctively, ripping his arm away and dropping the bowls. “ _Don't touch me_!”

Griffith’s hand dropped immediately. “My apologies my friend I was just--I didn't intend to. . . ” Strangely, he found himself at a loss for words.

Guts’ face skewed to an even angrier furrow, enhancing his thick brows and deep frown lines. “ _J_ _ust spit it out!”_ he snapped, his words coming out more exasperated than necessary. He looked away immediately, a remorseful huff following shortly thereafter. “I'm sorry, Griffith. I--I was out of line.” He swallowed the lump in his throat and rubbed his hand down his face. With a weariness in his voice that hadn't been there earlier he asked, “What do you want?”  

Griffith’s own thoughts harmonized with the dark voice in the back of his mind: _You. It’s always been you._ “I just--” Griffith paused, pushing his hair behind his ears. A nervous habit. “I wanted to apologize for being so selfish and reckless." He smiled fondly. "You have my thanks, Guts." He glanced up hesitantly and, to his relief, Guts comfortably met his eyes. Though Griffith had given his words no context, the gentle understanding and acceptance that were softening Guts’ expression told him he didn't need to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you liked it gimme dem kudos bruh, they sustain my life energy. Can't Kudos? Can't give kudos anymore cuz you were awesome and already did it, but you want to do it again? Type kudos in the comment box! I could hear from you a thousand times and never get tired of it. I love all of you guys <3


	6. Squire

* * *

The following afternoon, just as the Hawks’ chief medic, Xavier, finished putting a new binding on Griffith's ankle, a messenger came galloping into camp on a flashy black courser. “I have an urgent message from His Esteemed Excellency General Vorhees of the South Midland Lion Claw Knights!”

Everyone nearby came to see what the commotion was about.

The messenger hopped nimbly to the ground. “Where is the Viscount Griffith?” he hollered over the gathering crowd. “I must speak with him at once!”

A loud, nonchalant voice came from behind the crowd. “He's not receiving visitors at the moment.”

Everyone, including the messenger, turned toward the voice. It was Guts.

The soldiers parted like water, some saluting, others tipping hats or uttering a respectful ‘Captain’ as he strolled toward the primly-dressed man at the center of the crowd. Crossing his arms and flexing his biceps, Guts towered over the messenger with an intimidating smirk. This was his domain and he was not amused by the disturbance the little man was causing within it. Even less so by the sneer of disapproval on his rat-like face.

“I'm Guts,” he offered plainly. “Griff--er, _Sir_ Griffith's second in command.” He held out a hand and beckoned with his fingers. “Give me your message. I'll make sure he gets it.”

To his credit, the messenger stood his ground. With a firm shake of his feathered cap, he refused. “I shall do nothing of the sort! I am under strict orders from the General himself to deliver this message _directly_ to Sir Griffith.” His words spilled out of his mouth with such haughty indignance that Guts wanted to kick his teeth in.

Guts chuckled darkly. “Seems talking is all you’re good at, huh? Maybe you should give listening a try.” He poked the messenger hard in his brocade-covered chest and some of the surrounding men began cheering, eager for a fight. There was certainly no love lost between soldiers of the Midland army proper and the ‘ _l_ _owly’_ Hawk mercenaries they looked down on.

Guts smirked and repeated his threat with increased confidence, poking him again. “I _said_ Griffith isn't receiving visitors and that's the _last time_ I'm gonna say it. Now give me the message or I'll--”

“ _Stop_!”

A collective gasp spread through the watching crowd. They all knew Griffith's voice when they heard it.

Guts' whirled around in surprise.

His injured arm in a white sling, Griffith moved slowly toward him on a single roughly-made crutch. His hair--usually kept shining and immaculate--hung limp and disheveled around his face. The knee-length linen night shirt he wore wasn't tied off at the neck or wrists. It fluttered loosely about his person, leaving one shoulder and much of his chest exposed. He wore no trousers or boots.

Guts shook his head. “Oh no you don't!” he chastised, pointing at the tent. “Get back in bed you--”

The sharpness of Griffith's icy glare was enough to shut Guts up mid lecture.  _You overstep._

Griffith didn't need to say it for Guts to know exactly what the look meant and he backed off immediately.

The messenger flashed a condescending sneer in his direction before bowing gracefully toward Griffith. “Greetings, my Lord. Many thanks for calling off your _dog._ I am Corvus, first squire to His Esteemed Excellency General Vorhees of the South Midland Lion--”

“My apologies,” Griffith cut in, inclining his head toward the man, “but may we have this discussion in my tent? In my current condition I'd much rather sit than stand."

Corvus nearly fell over he bowed so low. Guts stifled a scathing remark with his hand. “Heavens I--yes, _yes_ of course Sir Griffith! Please, we may speak anywhere you wish.”

Griffith nodded politely and turned without another word. Corvus instinctively followed.

 _"Guts_ ,” Griffith beckoned, low and firm, over his shoulder. "Come."

Guts snorted irritably, but followed after them. He barked at the men to get back to their tasks as he strode through the crowd. They dispersed like ravens off fresh carrion at the first glimpse of a wolf.

 

\-----

 

“Are you out of your mind?” Guts turned, wide eyed and incredulous, to look at Griffith as he pointed at the messenger. "Tell him he's out of his mind!"

Griffith breathed out heavily through his nose and closed his eyes.

Guts didn't relent, turning back to the messenger. “He can barely stand and you're suggesting he climb onto that white beast of a horse and ride, one handed, to Charcy?"

Corvus muttered something about simpletons to himself, waving off Guts’ concern like he was shooing a fly. “Of course not! Only an _ignoramus_ would assume as much.” He stared at him, smirking pointedly. “My Lord will be sending his personal carriage.”

Guts balled his fists and glared at the insufferable little man. Corvus sneered back.

Trying to keep the peace--and the messenger's face--intact, Griffith hastily interjected. “Indeed a most generous offer, and one I plan to consider.”

Corvus beamed snidely at Guts, making him look even more rodent-like. “Splendid my Lord! I shall inform--”

“Forgive my interruption, but, don't rush off just yet. There are a few details of note I must consider regarding a prolonged absence from my men. I will need a moment to speak with Captain Guts here,” he motioned toward him and Guts gave Corvus a cheeky little salute. “He's my second in command and I will need to discuss these details with him before giving you my final answer.”

Corvus stared in disbelief. He'd assumed Guts had been lying to him earlier. That a man as rough and crude as Guts could hold such a high rank was unthinkable in his narrow experience, but, after a moment of consideration he bowed all the same. The tip of his lengthy hat feather brushed the ground. “Of course my Lord Griffith.

When the messenger was out of the tent and safely out of earshot, Griffith motioned Guts closer to where he sat on the bed.

“I don't trust him as far as I can throw him,” Guts grumbled.

Griffith brought a hand to his mouth, chuckling brightly until it became full on laughter.

Guts raised a hand to him. “What? What’s so damn funny?”

Griffith grinned at him, eyes shining. “He's not much taller than a boy, I should think you could toss him a fair distance, wouldn't you agree?"

Shaking his head, Guts sat down beside Griffith and turned his broad shoulders. He seemed quite concerned about coming in contact with him,  avoiding him carefully. Even so, Griffith swallowed hard at their unexpected proximity.

“I'm being serious,” Guts explained, “I know you've made friends in high places, but--”

“--I've also made enemies?” Griffith finished, flicking a knowing brow upward.

Guts turned away, his body thrumming with concern.

Griffith gave an understanding sigh and idly ran the ends of his hair through his hands.  “Guts, I very much appreciate your worrying about me, but--”

Guts whirled back. “Then how can you possibly be considering this? You don't know him and yet you'll willingly lay yourself up in his home? Put yourself at his mercy? If he's in the pocket of General Clouse or Archbishop Vitorrio this would be the perfect time for them to call in a favor and take you out.”

Griffith was beyond pleased. Guts had finally started to understand how the game was played, though, in this case, he had nothing to fear. Ever since he was small Griffith had been able to read people like books. His first memory of it came shortly after his mother died and he'd been taken to the State Ward House. The way the head mistress smiled at him when the deacon dropped him off made his skin crawl. He had such an unshakable feeling of dread whenever she was around that it drove him to run away. Two years later he'd watched from amongst an enraged crowd as that very same woman was hanged for mutilating countless children in her care; cutting their tongues out and selling them to a small group of slave traders from the south. Griffith had never doubted his intuition after that. If the General truly was under the thumb of someone in Wyndham, he'd have known the moment they'd first met.

The reverence General Voorhees had shown his body the night he’d spent with him and his wife had helped confirm what Griffith already knew. In fact, the General's soft mannerisms and apparent taste for virile young men were most likely the reason he'd been chosen to command Midland’s most remote training garrison in the first place. The lords with penchants for young men were numerous, but those that made it known publicly tended not to last long in court. Rumours tittered about over brandy or whispered behind hand fans abounded, but nobody in their right mind claimed them. Paradoxically this flirtation with getting caught made the game all the sweeter for many of them. Griffith knew firsthand. An ominous smile flashed across his face and it pleased him to see Guts’ brow furrow with bewilderment. "I have to agree with you, Guts,” Griffith lied. “The General seemed genuine in his approval of my campaign, but I certainly wouldn't trust him with my life. That is precisely why _you_ will accompany me.” As he said it he could feel the twisting of selfish guilt in his chest.

_Alone, my Lord. All alone with you._

Guts’ mouth opened but nothing came out.

“With you at my side, Guts, I would truly be able to convalesce  with peace of mind.”

Guts' strange mood only served to increase the anxious energy in the room.

Griffith turned toward him, but kept his attention angled down in his own lap. "My apologies for being so forward, but..." He looked up through his lashes, "does being alone with me bother you in some way?"

Guts shifted, bunching himself up defensively and offering a gruff, " _No."_ His head turned away, no doubt to hide the confusion and discomfort on his face that went along with his reddened ears and cheeks. "Why would it? Why even ask?"

"You just seemed put out by the idea. Is something else the matter perhaps? Talk to me, my friend."

Clearly trying to save face, Guts scrambled for a rebuttle. "It's...no, it's just--just...uh...the men!"

"The men?"

Guts nodded. "They'll be without a leader if we both go. I'm being responsible staying back. You should really thank me. I mean who yah gonna leave in charge, huh? Corkus? _Rickert_?" He laughed smugly. It was a poor mask for his nervousness and Griffith saw right through it. His eyes narrowed with a devious smirk and he paused for effect.

“Casca," he stated finally.

Guts stared at him, mouth hanging open in surprise.

Feeling he'd won the exchange, Griffith stood to gather some clothing with his head held high. To his mortification, Guts forced him back down by the shoulders as easily as if he were a child. He controlled his strength with a gentle finesse Griffith would never have expected. It was bewildering and... _exciting_.

“Sit," Guts ordered, his tone not dissimilar to Griffith's when he himself gave such commands: stern yet filled with understanding. He put a hand behind his head and twisted, scanning back and forth. "I'll get...the uh...err...what is it you needed?" Visibly agitated--like he wanted to bolt, but couldn't--Guts motioned for Griffith to hurry it up.

With his good arm he indicated to the trunk in the far corner of the tent that contained his finer articles of clothing. "The paisley ensemble if you wouldn't mind? It should be reasonably clean.”

Silence settled between them as Guts pawed through the trunk of smooth silks, fine brocades and richly embroidered velvets. The chest creaked as he dug through it. Griffith watched with reserved curiosity as Guts ran the fine clothes between his calloused hands, quietly marveling at them. For Griffith, it was utterly fascinating to watch the thoughts scroll across his face: surprise, appreciation, awe and, finally, an intimate realization that reddened his cheeks. Griffith cocked his head and smiled. Clothes were such mundane items and yet they hugged a person closer and more frequently than a lover. Guts had never handled any of his dress clothes before; a fact that sent an odd sensation wriggling through Griffith's core that was not entirely familiar--nor unpleasant.

"Here," Guts murmured, shoving an armful of clothes at him. He accidentally met Griffith's endearing smile of gratitude and rolled his eyes with a scoff. It might have been convincing if it weren't for the hint of a smile hiding in the corner of his mouth.

 "Thank you, Guts."

Guts waited awkwardly for approval with his arms crossed as Griffith appraised the ensemble in his lap. He kept his freshly hardened gaze averted, trying not to look concerned. Griffith's smile brightened even more when he noticed it. Guts was many things, but a good actor wasn't one of them.  

"Excellent job. These will do just fine. Paisley jacket included." He raised it a bit for emphasis, amazed Guts had known what to look for. Perhaps he'd guessed? 

Guts bashful pride seeped through his tough exterior like water through a leaky siv. He looked away, focusing his attention on the bustle of routine activity going on just outside with great interest. "If you need help I'll grab Rickert off woodcutting."

Griffith took the opportunity to settle a knowing look over him. "That shouldn't be necessary, Guts, but thank you." With some carefully controlled wriggling Griffith slowly worked the rumpled night shirt off over his head. When he could see again, he found Guts had put his back to him fully.

His head quirked to one side. They'd been naked around one another hundreds of times so why now was he choosing to be timid? Had something changed? The notion that Guts was bothered by his nudity made Griffith's heart skip a beat. This frightened him in a way that was strangely enjoyable. What was happening to him? He usually had better control.

After a long pause and even longer sigh Guts turned back. "You've already made up your mind about going, haven't you?” 

“I have indeed. Unless you have any further objections?”

Guts snorted sarcastically. “Guess not.” He opened the tent flap then looked back. “Though just so you know, if someone _does_ manage to take you out under my watch, Casca will have my head on a spike so don't do anything stupid.”

He left before he could hear Griffith's soft reply. “I wouldn't dream of it, my friend.”

 ----

Guts strode angrily toward the mess tent to get a drink of water. He gulped the tankard down then slammed it on the table.

“You alright boss?”

It was Gaston.

Guts shrugged. “Griffith's going to stay in Charcy while he heals up.”

“That what the message was from General whatsisname?”

Guts nodded. “Yeah, and I'm apparently going along to play bodyguard.”

This made Gaston laugh. “Nurse maid more like it, eh?” he nudged Guts as he chuckled at his own joke.

“Yeah, right?”

Though Guts wasn't particularly happy about it  he didn't have much choice but to accept the teasing. He knew Gaston meant well and that all the Hawks were eager for Griffith's healthy return.

“Who's gonna run things while you're both away? Corkus?"

Guts grimaced audibly. "Hell no! Casca."

"Casca huh? Griffith really say that, boss?"

“Mhmm. That's what he said.”

Gaston looked a little apprehensive, but smiled all the same as he merrily clapped Guts on the back. “It'll be a rough time, but Casca knows what she's doing and Griffith knows it too. We all do. Hell, even Corkus knows.”

“I guess. If Griffith thinks she's the man for--I mean woman, for the job, then who am I to question him?”

Gaston squeezed his shoulder firmly. “That's the spirit! Leave the big decisions to the men getting paid to make ‘em! Griffith has never lead us astray before, so don't worry about it. Go. Have fun, chase some blueblood skirt and just take it easy for a change. Eh boss?" He nudged Guts again.

Guts smiled. That was Gaston. Always optimistic and full of good advice. Guts grinned at him. “I sure am gonna try.”

Gaston patted his shoulder with encouraging finality and saluted him before strolling out, grabbing a sweet roll on the way.

Guts lingered deep in thought for some time afterward. Griffith knew what he was doing. He knew this, he'd always known it, so why did this feel so strange? Was he really so against rest and relaxation or was there something else to it?

Griffith's voice echoed in his head. _'My apologies for being so forward, but does being alone with me...bother you in some way?'_

 ~~~~Guts winced, his mind a flurry of thoughts and emotions. _  
_

When he finally left the mess tent, a haughty voice snaked out from beside it. ”You're an awfully loud brute, are you aware of that?”

Guts whipped around and saw the sleazeball messenger leaning against an apple crate.

He studied the fruit in his hand. “You wouldn't last five minutes in court.”

“Funny,” Guts scathed, “I was just thinking the same about you and this camp. Keep talking and I might need to reevaluate my estimate.”

Corvus rolled his eyes as though receiving death threats were as mundane to him as taking a parcel order. He pushed off the crate and walked past Guts with an air of abject superiority that made Guts want to punch him into next week.

He paused, shoulder to shoulder to offer a final piece of advice.

“You ought to be careful how loudly you discuss sensitive information. You never know who's _just_ around the corner,” he declared cryptically. “You _really._ Never. Know.”

He strolled away with a satisfied smirk, leaving Guts with an open mouth, a pair of clenched fists and a horrible feeling in his gut.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys are amazing have I told you that?


	7. Vulture

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *EDIT Here's a video walkthrough of the layout of Griffith's rooms at Charcy  
> [on my insta.](https://www.instagram.com/tv/BwlvHwOH8nX/?utm_source=ig_share_sheet&igshid=16kxtf9e8h8l9)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/March_(territory)>

“But Griffith, I--!”

“There’s nothing to worry about, Casca.” Griffith put an encouraging hand on her shoulder. “You’re more than capable of making sure things run smoothly while I’m away.”

She shied a little under his hand, chin coming down self-consciously. “Griffith, It’s not that I don’t think I can do the job.” She hedged a soft look at him. “I’m worried something will happen to you there.”

Griffith raised a brow and smiled as he turned from her to Guts and back again. “You two are more alike than you think, it seems.”

Casca gave him a curious look.

“Guts said something similar when I told him,” Griffith explained, “and I'm telling you what I told him then: There’s really nothing to worry about. I will be well taken care of there, and, on the off chance something _does_ go wrong, Guts is going to make sure I make it through unscathed.” He inclined his head toward Guts, flicking his blue eyes over him. “Aren’t you, Guts?”

Guts snorted irritably, as though offended he’d even asked such a stupid question. “Of course I am.” His eyes slid to Casca, who was staring at him darkly.  “Nobody's going to hurt him while I’m around.”

She broke away from Griffith and took two firm steps toward Guts and stared down into his eyes. There was an intensity there Guts had only seen in them when Griffith’s life had been in danger. It made his spine itch. “Promise me.” She demanded, voice low and wavering.

Guts looked her right in the eyes. He understood her worry and knew he would have been just as concerned if he were the one staying behind. He tried to reassure her with his eyes and said, “I promise, Casca.”

Rickert’s head shot into the tent, breaking the tension. “Griffith, the carriage is at the crest of the hill!”

“I suppose it’s time to go,” Griffith sighed with cheerful resignation. “Guts would you help me up?”

Guts stood and, to his surprise, Casca didn’t get out of the way. She was directly in front of him, hands clenched at her sides. He actually had to move her when she refused to do so on her own.

“I don’t like this, Griffith.” She said over her shoulder. “But I’ll do it. For you.”

Griffith gave her a look that communicated just as much guilt as it did warmth. “I know Casca, and I thank you for it. Truly.”

“Let me help you, Griffith!” Rickert offered brightly, propping him up as best he could without hurting his sprained wrist. As the two left, Rickert happily chatted about watching an osprey snag a fish from the river earlier that day. Griffith started to reply just as the pair faded from earshot. 

Guts gathered his things and followed, pausing on his way out with one arm in the tent flap. Looking over his shoulder, Casca was still standing facing the back wall of the tent. It was clear from the shaking of her shoulders that she was crying, or about to start: Guts couldn't hear sniffling or anything. The air in Griffith’s tent was stifling, though the heat paled in comparison to the tension filling it.

“I swear on my life I’ll keep him safe, Casca.”

She didn’t turn around, but, slowly, her fists relaxed, which Guts took as a good sign. “And, for what it’s worth, you’re a damn good captain,” He asserted. “Remember that.”

\---------

 

Guts gazed around in absolute bewilderment. Their assigned suite of rooms at Charcy were far more opulent than he’d been expecting; a far cry from their campaign tents down by the river. Covered in elaborate moldings, plush embroidered velvet, and gold-painted filigree, the rooms were a dazzling array of swirls, patterns and colors. Griffith’s apartments in Wyndham castle were crude by comparison.

“Trying to catch flies?” Griffith teased.

Guts shut his mouth, a bit embarrassed to have been caught gawking. “Even with a crown stipend, how the hell does he afford all this showy crap?” He flicked a tassel on the edge of a tapestry with disdain.

Griffith inclined his head, considering the question as he appraised a particularly curvaceous statue of a goddess. “When her only brother, the Marquess of St. Beauchamp, fell in the battle of Corsica, Lady Vorhees was made regent of the March of St. Beauchamp. The official title sits waiting for her eldest son, Alois, to come of age. The royal treasury pours defense funds into the region routinely and it’s further supplemented by tolls placed on the merchant road. A percentage goes to her ladyship--or rather her husband. They’re absurdly wealthy, or, so I’m told.”

Guts gave an irritated grunt. “Fucking nobles. They’ve got everything they need and still take a cut from the commoners’ purses,” he griped as he leaned his sword against the mantle of the fireplace. Made of a massive singular slab of striated black marble, it crowned the facing beneath it which featured a _‘lion courant’_ carved in detailed relief.

He sat down on one of the blue settees near the empty hearth and crossed his arms. He wasn’t familiar with which nobles lorded over what chunks of land, but even he’d heard of St. Beauchamp. More battles had been fought in the aptly named ‘Valley of Blood’ than anywhere else in Midland. Shaped like a cinch-waisted lady it straddled the northern and southern ends of a narrow gap between the Carmet and Landsing mountain ranges. Some of the best wine in the country was made from the grapes grown there.

Dangerous though the pass often was, the month it saved merchants journeying to the southern sea ports made braving the earthquakes, tolls and potential military hold ups more than worth it. Chuder had been trying to lay claim to the rich passage for decades and it frequently came under attack.

“Comfortable?” Griffith asked, moving purposefully on his crutch toward the sofa opposite. 

“See for yourself,” said Guts.

Griffith sank into the well-stuffed cushions and let a small groan of delight slip. 

“Nice right?” Guts said. It really was as comfortable as it looked and he was secretly glad for that. He’d been sitting on logs and rough wooden furniture for too long.

“Indeed it is.” Griffith closed his eyes and let his head fall back. “This place very much reminds me of home.”

When Guts failed to respond to this, Griffith cracked open one blue eye, peering at him with childlike curiosity. “You’re very quiet all of a sudden. Is something the matter?”

“Not really, no, I just--” Guts started, before gesturing noncommittally and turning his head toward the open window “--ah never mind, you don’t wanna hear it, it’s stupid.”

Griffith waved off his concern with his one good arm and gave him a pointed look down the length of his upturned nose. “If I didn’t want to know, I wouldn’t have asked.”

Guts balked sheepishly and leaned heavily over his knees, hands folded together. He always felt out of his element speaking frankly about his inner thoughts, even to Griffith. _Especially_ to Griffith. At least, as of late anyway.

“Alright then,” he sighed with finality. “I was just thinking it feels strange to have a home to go back _to._ Never had one before we got our place in the palace barracks and probably still wouldn’t if Corkus and his goons hadn’t jumped me on that road way back then.” He jerked his head to one side and rubbed his neck. “Shit, I guess I owe that rat bastard for something after all huh? I’ll never hear the end of it if he ever figures it out...”

Griffith laughed, an easeful joy spreading through him. “Well I’m glad you see it that way now, because you certainly didn’t then. You were willing to fight tooth and nail to be rid of m--of us.”

Guts’ eyes narrowed and he delivered a snarky retort. “Yeah well if some smug bastard on a horse stabbed _you_ and _you’d_ lost most of _your_ blood,  you’d have been ready for a fight too!”

A look of pleased concession drew Griffith's face upward. “A smug bastard, am I?” He commented with nonchalance. “I suppose that’s a fair assessment. After all, I _did_ stab you.” His tone had started off humorously enough, but it faded toward the end into a vague awkwardness that made his spine prickle with anxiety.

_You stabbed him. Hurt him. Your friend. Your prize. Hurt him. Hurt him. Hurt--_

Griffith blinked hard several times and gave his head an imperceptible shake, fighting the voices scathing remarks. The room went still and quiet after that, so quiet the chirping birds outside on the windowsill were deafening. A lengthy pause filled the silence before Griffith, more penitently, said, “Guts, I’d be remiss if, after all these years, I didn’t use this opportunity to express my most sincere apologies. I know it doesn’t change what happened, but for what it’s worth it really wasn't my intention to--”

“ _Hey!"_  Guts barked, “Enough with the apology crap!”

Startled, Griffith’s gaze snapped to the imposing frame of his dark-haired friend, his breath hitching dryly in his chest. He was so dazed he could do nothing but sit and stare. Guts pointed at him aggressively and he jerked in surprise.

“Whether you apologize or not makes no difference now. I’ve gained more joining up with you guys than I would have if I’d gone on living as a lone merc; a lot more than a puny scar and a few pints of blood are worth at any rate. I’ve lost alot more for alot less." He let his words hang in the air for several long seconds, enjoying the look of bewilderment on his commanders face, before smirking and crossing his arms. “And for the record, I wasn’t the only one who got hurt. If you recall, I beat the ever-loving shit out of your face. . . so . . .”

Griffith looked up with reminiscent amusement. That he had. That first punch had dazed him so thoroughly he’d barely felt the others. Griffith had never been hit so hard in all his life, before or since. He’d forced himself through a rigorous bout of reflexive and evasive training after that to ensure he’d never be caught out in hand to hand again.

“All that being said,” Guts continued, “I wouldn’t turn down a drink or two if you’re really looking for a way to make amends _._ ”

Griffith’s breath rushed out in a relieved laugh. “Yes, well, I think I could manage that.” The corners of his eyes turned up to match the curve of his mouth in a show of tenderness he seldom allowed himself to express.

Guts eyes warmed and he gave his commander a look of genuine gratitude. He really had meant what he’d said. The only place he belonged in this world was with the Hawks; with Griffith.

As they held each other's gaze, a wordless acknowledgment of sorts passed between the steadfast comrades that forgave any harm they’d done to one another during those first few days of their friendship.

 

\---------

Later that day, dozing comfortably in a poppy tea haze, Griffith reclined on the padded window bench in his main suite. His dreams and aspirations floated effervescently in and out of focus like strands of his hair floating gently around his face in the warm summer breeze. Guts had gone down to manage the horses they'd brought with them and Griffith was waiting on a maid to draw Guts and himself baths in the adjoining room.

He’d been alone with his thoughts for some time by that point and hadn’t managed to finish a single one. He opened his eyes, marveling over the vast green fields and forests below. They seemed to stretch out forever, fading into a greenish blur at the edges of the horizon. He wondered if the view from his castle, in his own kingdom, would look the same. It was then that Guts appeared in the field south of the main wall. Griffith perked, watching him lead Lammergeier--his massive white destrier--fully tacked, minus his armor, into the middle of the field.

They’d run into something of a housing issue for the stallion when they’d arrived. Several mares were in season in the main fort stables and, in their presence, all other males, gelded or not, became targets for the hormonally-driven stallion’s wrath so they’d had to segregate him in a small two stall building to the east of the main stables. The other two horses they’d brought with them--Guts’ feather-legged bay palfrey, Whiskey, and a buckskin rouncy whom Rickert had rather un-imaginatively named Buck--were stabled without complaint with the mares. Like the other horses in the Hawk’s cavalry they’d been gelded and, with no interest in breeding, were fairly content to live under the lone stallion’s rule. Aside from the occasional scolding nips to their flanks if they got too close to him, the towering warhorse cohabitated with the others in relative peace--so long as there were no females around to set him off on a testosterone-fueled offensive.

This extra bit of trouble to separate Lammergeier from the mares, Guts and Griffith both knew, would be well worth it in the end. The stallion and Guts’ gelding were as much warriors as any human and needed to be kept fighting fit. Griffith knew he wasn’t going to be able to ride his prized mount for at _least_ a month. Probably two. This was far too long for him to languish in a paddock, losing muscle and getting fat. He and Whiskey were front-line chargers and needed to be kept at the bleeding edge of their ability. Guts and Griffith’s lives depended on it.

Guts had agreed to undertake the hefty task of putting both horses through their paces each day, working them out and keeping the specific movements unique to their roles as war-mounts fresh in their minds. He’d griped about it a little, but it was actually a blessing in disguise. He couldn’t read for pleasure like Griffith and there would only be so many times he could polish armor and hone blades. Sitting in a manor house was one of the most boring things imaginable in Guts’ opinion. He knew he should probably use this downtime to get Griffith to help him improve his reading, but he truly hated it. He always felt like such a child, stumbling over words like an idiot; Griffith always giving him the same encouraging smile. It was irritating if not outright demeaning even though Guts knew he meant well. What did he need to know how to read for anyway? His job was to follow orders and kill things. Thankfully for him, the horses needs provided a convenient excuse to spend a few hours outdoors each day. They could have left them, Guts supposed, in the care of Giles, the farrier’s boy, but in this instance he was glad for Griffith’s particular preference to keep Lammergeier under his watchful eye, even if he couldn’t exercise him personally.

From the window, Griffith watched, eyes shining with intrigue, as Guts mounted the large horse with a single bounding leap into the stirrups--an impressive feat considering he could just barely see over his back. With hardly any effort he reigned the massive stallion around in a wide arc through the field, moving from walk to canter and finally to gallop. Such a powerful figure like Guts contrasted and complemented against the brightness of the horses white, well-muscled form was breathtaking. He was a very skilled rider, and always had been in Griffith’s opinion. His execution was a bit...unorthodox at times, but it was nevertheless effective. Griffith drew in a breath and swallowed the lump that formed in his throat. He’d never seen his own horse in a fully extended gallop before. The dark clouds forming overhead didn’t even put a damper on the scene, instead serving to enhance it. It was all so beautiful his chest swelled with an indescribable emotion, something akin to love and awe, but much deeper rooted in the primal core of his being. The part that intrinsically knew good from evil, right from wrong, beauty from ugliness. The part of him that could tell about someone the moment he met them if they were ally or foe.

If this was what his comrades felt when watching him lead a charge on Lammergeier’s back, both of them in gleaming accoutrement, he could understand in some small way, why they followed him with such blind devotion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Gypaetus barbatus;_ The bearded vulture, also known as the lammergeier or ossifrage, is a bird of prey and the only member of the genus Gypaetus. Iranian mythology considers the rare bearded vulture (Persian: هما, 'Homa') the symbol of luck and happiness. It was believed that if the shadow of a Homa fell on one, he would rise to sovereignty.


	8. Doors

* * *

Griffith was startled from his indulgent reverie by a knock at the door. The effects of the pain relieving tea notwithstanding, he struggled up off the window seat. The gentle rapping continued.

“I’ll be there in a moment,” he called politely. The knocking ceased.

Even with the aid of his crutch he had to steady himself a few times to keep from stumbling as he crossed the open expanse of stone floor. Poppy tea was certainly helping with his pain, but he disliked the way it reduced his faculties and reaction time. If it caused him to fall and injure himself further what good was it? He shook his head to try and clear it and took a look in the polished silver mirror beside the door. He frowned at his limp, oily curls. After several days of sleeping through an inflammatory fever in a sweltering tent, it was in bad need of a wash. All of him was. It was unfortunate that a visitor had arrived before he’d had a chance to tidy his appearance, but the baths were being drawn bucket by bucket from the scullery and there was nothing he could do about it now.

With a dismal sigh he pulled the frayed blue ribbon he’d found earlier beneath a cushion out of his pocket. He’d been planning to use it as a bookmark, but now set quickly to gathering his hair with it. When it was situated neatly at the nape of his neck, he tied it firmly in place. There wasn’t enough excess to make a bow, but it was the best he could do given the circumstances and he had to be happy with it. He was hopeful having his hair away from his face would help minimize attention to its disheveled state. After clearing his throat and giving his paisley jacket one last fastidious tug he cautiously opened the door. Peering around it, he gasped.

“Your Lordship!” Griffith’s muscles wanted to stiffen uncomfortably, but he forced down his disgust and instead put on a relaxed posture and gracious smile. “My, what a splendid surprise!”

“Greetings, my dear Viscount,” The General beamed, his eyes sympathetically scanning Griffith’s body. He eyed the crutch--this one of a much better make than the last--with concern and made a motion to that effect. “I do hope I’m not intruding upon your rest.”

Griffith followed his gaze then tilted his head to one side and coyly shook it. “Not at all my Lord. Please,” He indicated over one shoulder with his chin, “Do come in.”

The General looked down the hall with an edge of nervousness, his cheeks starting to take on a hint of flush. Griffith also noted the sweat gleaming on his thick neck and resisted the desire to roll his eyes. Men like this were so predictable, though he really couldn’t complain. Predictable men made for easy victories.

“Very good, lad. Don’t mind if I do.”

Griffith retreated further into the room and tried his best to ignore the subtle turn of the latch hook as the General locked the door behind them. The old man cleared his throat and wiped the back of his neck with a gold kerchief pulled from his pocket. “If I do become an unwelcome intrusion Lord Griffith please feel free to say so.”

The opportunity to deliver a firm tongue-in-cheek remark about General Vorhees’ past _intrusions_ dangled in front of Griffith like string before a kitten. All he could do was drown it and smile.

“Perish the thought, Lord General,” Griffith batted his eyelashes and cast his eyes to one side like a coquettish ingenue. “You’ve been nothing but a comforting hand extending kindness in my time of need. I’m very grateful.”

The General offered a smile that Griffith was certain held more than just well-meaning regards.

“That comrade of yours--the big fellow--he’s making sure you’re comfortable in here, I hope?”

Griffith scowled internally, put off by the idea that the General was aware of Guts’ presence with him at all. His angelic face showed only soft, pleasant lines. “He is, My Lord.”

“Ah, yes. Excellent. And...where might he be?”

The way the General kept looking around as though expecting someone to pop out of an armoire reminded Griffith of the pair of flamingos he’d seen in Wyndham’s royal menagerie, their bizarrely curved heads constantly swiveling to and fro looking for danger.

Griffith indicated to the window. “Down in the south paddock seeing to my destrier.”

They moved together to the open window and took in the beautiful scene Griffith had so been admiring before he’d been interrupted. Guts was doing ground work with Lammergeier now, executing side steps and cross field flying lead changes with graceful ease.

“Goodness, what a beautiful creature,” said the General, after some moments of watching Guts handle the horse. Griffith felt him slide inch by subtle inch behind him until they were layered, one in front of the other like fanned playing cards. A meaty hand soon followed, gently resting upon his hip. He drew in a short breath and felt a blush rise to his cheeks. It was an involuntary reaction, but one he planned to capitalize on to full advantage.

“He is indeed my Lord, thank you. He’s quite pricey to maintain, but I spare no expense on his training and upkeep.”

A chuckling whisper that was far too close to his ear to be anything, _but_ suggestive made Griffith’s spine crawl. “I wasn’t referring to the horse, lad.”

This made Griffith gasp sharply and pull away from the larger man, blushing in earnest now. Fire filled his eyes and jealousy raced into his head, bringing the terrible voice along with it like a thundering cavalry charge. How dare someone look at Guts that way. How dare another _man_ look at him that way. It was indecent, impure, immoral!

_Yours. He’s yours. Only YOURS!_

Kisses dotted the side of his neck and Griffith shuddered back to reality, half-heartedly jerking away as though keeping up a pretense he hadn’t meant to let slip. “My Lord I--”

“I asked you before to call me _Roland_ when we’re alone.”

Another soft evasion of Griffith’s inquisitive blue eyes accompanied a tentative whisper, “Yes of course...Roland…”

His eyes returned to the General’s with hesitant, but eager intensity and at once the old man was upon him. Taking great care to mind his injuries, the General softly pressing him down to the window seat, laying him back so he could frantically kiss his throat. Griffith’s gasps and breathy whimpers, the vast majority of which were either orchestrated for effect or repurposed sounds of pain as his ankle and wrist were jostled, filled the fractional space between them. They fueled the old man’s fervor like oil on a bonfire.

Now that the formalities had fallen away and they were both openly acknowledging their history of sexual intimacy, the General held him tenderly. “I was so worried when I heard you’d been injured,” he confessed softly. He unbuttoned Griffith's waist coat and pulled the shirt out of his trousers. Griffith wanted to cringe, but kept his face warm and inviting. He’d had few doubts as to the General’s gender preferences when they’d first had sex. Now, none remained whatsoever.Though his arm was in a sling, that didn’t seem to bother the General, who pushed the silk of his dress shirt upward until it could go no further. With shining eyes he admired the flat, hard expanse of Griffith’s shuddering abdomen. His thick fingers trailed over each rising swell of muscle, taking them in like a priest reverently scanning the pages of a bible.

“You're so perfect it defies reason," The General professed, stroking Griffith's face. "I’ve never had a boy--a _man_ \--as beguiling as you, my beautiful hawk. Since our last encounter you’re all I’ve been able to think of. My wife has said more or less the same, though after what you and I shared, well...I had hoped...” His words trailed off apprehensively along with his gaze. "You might be amenable to continuing what we started without her."

God, the man was positively smitten with him. Griffith hadn’t meant for things to go quite this far, but it was a blessing in disguise. The General had made a foolish mistake in confiding such dangerous information to him, for now he was more determined than ever to find a way to turn the man’s feelings of affection for him into coin. The time for coy subtlety had passed. He looked away bashfully and the General caressed his face, encouraging his attention. Affection shone in his eyes and Griffith fabricated a warm smile to match. 

“I confess,” Griffith lied softly, “I had never before experienced such things as those you showed me the night we spent together with your wife. I had heard of men who like to--” He bashfully omitted the _‘indecent’_ verbiage with a shy jerk of his head,”--with other men, but never understood what was to be gained from such encounters.”

A soft kiss to his cheek and a stroke of his thigh from the General quieted him. “And now?” the old man asked, eyes hopeful and filled with lust.

Griffith put his one good hand on the General’s grizzled cheek and put everything he had into generating a believable expression of affection. “I know it’s terribly uncouth of me to ask such things of you when you’ve already offered me so much, but--”

“Nonsense my dear boy, whatever it is you need just ask and it’s yours.”

He tossed his head with frustration and the tie came out of his hair, spilling it around his shoulders. The General swallowed audibly. “I don’t know, I still think it’s…”

“Come now,” the old man urged gently, “out with it. What do you need, my hawk.”

And there it was. Griffith slid right into the opening he’d been waiting for. Hesitantly he pulled the man down into a fleeting press of lips, from which he promptly drew back, cheeks flushed red.

“I want to explore this novelty with you. I’m certain there is much to learn.”

This drew a flirtatiously wicked grin from the General. “Indeed there is, and I’m happy to teach it all to you.” He bit his lip and drew in a slow breath as he took in Griffith’s body with unveiled lust.

“I would like that, Roland. Very much.” Griffith continued, his hand moving to the General’s shoulder, “But I fear I may be too distracted to pursue these desires.”

“Distracted?” the old man puzzled, “By your injuries? If that’s so, I promise you I’ll be sure to--”

Griffith cut in, “By my men.”

The General raised a brow. “Your men?”

“Yes my Lord.” He bowed his head solemnly. “I know you’ve sent a supply load to them already, and for that I am eternally grateful, but that was prior to my injuries and now that I’m to be waylaid for a month in your esteemed household--perhaps two--I fear they may exhaust their resources before I’m able to return to my post.”

A warm peel of laughter burst forth with unexpected force from the old man. “Is that all?” he laughed, clearly as amused as he was besotted. “My dear, sweet hawk. If that is all that plagues your mind, perish the thought this instant.” He kissed his neck again and began fondling Griffith boldly. “Whatever you require--coin, supplies, livestock--to see to the well-kept state of your men, consider it yours.”

A dark glee filled Griffith’s heart as he reacted with as much relief and surprise as he could muster. It was difficult because the fact of the matter was, this outcome had long since been planned. Griffith had known the moment he’d read that lewd note back in his tent that he would have the upper hand when it came to bargaining. The specifics of his plan were open-ended as it relied largely on the old man to decide the place and time of the first move, though in the end the outcome was the same. It was why he’d agreed to recuperate in Charcy in the first place. The General had fallen into his hands so easily he almost felt guilty. The old man clearly had no head for politics and aristocratic games.

“I don’t know what to say, Roland, I--”

The General silenced him with a kiss then backed off the window seat onto his knees. Griffith was relieved. The old man was so stiff pressed against his thigh he could feel a bruise forming.  

“You don’t have to say anything. Just lay back and let me take care of everything.”

Griffith’s spine bowed, head snapping back onto the cushions, as the General took him into his mouth with vigorous delight. The last time he’d done so, Griffith had actually managed to climax and now, despite the black disdain he harbored in his heart for both the man servicing him and his own willingness to participate, he found his cock springing to life. He writhed and moaned appropriately, though to his own mortification some of his responses were wrung naturally from the taut line of his body as he was thoroughly pleasured. It didn’t take long for the General to include his hands in the rapturous mix, using his fingers to gently open Griffith’s body in anticipation of things to come. Even this Griffith found oddly enjoyable. He never had before and it baffled him now. When those fingers curled upward, thrust _just so_ , he couldn’t hold back the heady cry of pleasure that escaped him as he climaxed into the old man’s mouth. He didn't understand. What was _happening_ to him?

“That’s it. Very good,” The General praised as he rose to his feet. He wiped his mouth suggestively and pulled a green glass bottle from his breast pocket. “Now let’s see if your ass remembers my cock as well as yours did my mouth, hmm?”

The next portion of their trist was decidedly less pleasurable. On his back on the window seat, knees brought up close to his chest, all Griffith could really focus on was trying to keep his injured limbs stationary. Easier said than done. Careful as the General was being with him, each thrust into his body jarred his ankle. Even with the fading poppy tea in his system, by the time the General had spent himself deep within his body, Griffith was in a considerable amount of pain. He had to grit his teeth whenever he wasn’t offering forcibly sweet replies to the General’s loving prattle just to bear it undetected. Luckily the imported silk brocade clutched in his fingers, the golden picture frames glinting on the walls and the coins jingling softly in the General’s coin purse were whispering sweet nothings into his ears. This, more than anything else, eased his pain the most.

 

\-----

Less than ten minutes after General Vorhees had left, Guts came into the room, rubbing his hair with a cloth. Not a hint of what had gone on in the room while he was out remained.

“It’s really coming down out there!” he exclaimed briskly.

Griffith, who was situated with a book on his lap near the fire, quirked his mouth irritably as he took note of the muddy puddles Guts’ boots were leaving behind on the stone floor. He sighed and looked dismally out at the storm. “Seems like it. You’re absolutely soaked.”

“Yeah it really snuck up on us out there,” Guts said, moving near the fireplace to help his clothes dry.

Griffith turned with sparing emotion. “How did Lammergeier work for you?”

Guts shrugged. “Like a stubborn prick. Don’t know how you manage him with so little effort.”

Griffith ignored the veiled compliment, but smiled nonetheless. “Did his right foreleg give him any trouble?”

“His lead changes were a bit sluggish on that side, but I checked him over before I turned him in and it seemed fine to me.”

“Well that’s a relief.” Griffith sighed, hand on his chest. He thought he’d noticed a bit of a hitch in the stallion’s stride last time he rode him, but that may have just been his imagination. Still it was better to be safe than sorry.

“Perhaps you ought to send for the stable master to put a ginger compress on it. Just in case.”

“I’d hate to see you become a father,” Guts said.

Blindsided by this obscure comment, Griffith gave him a bewildered look. “What do you-- Why do you say that?”

Guts offered him a mocking grin. “You dote on him far too much. I can only imagine, if this is how you treat your _horse_ , that your children’ll be so mollycoddled they’ll never stop shitting in their pants. You know he bit Whisky’s ass _twice_ on the way here?”

Griffith burst out laughing and Guts glowered at him. At first. In the end he just shook his head with a smile.

A knock on the door adjoining their two rooms cut through Griffith’s laughter.

 

\----

 

“What?” Guts barked as he opened the door.

The maid in the hall, who couldn’t have been more than ten or eleven, made a small yip and dropped her chin to her chest. She seemed frightened and confused, as though she'd knocked on the wrong door.

Remorse blossomed in Guts’ chest as he rubbed his neck.

“G-goodday, Sir. Is Lord Griffith--? Um...his Lordship requested baths be drawn and, umm...”

Guts face qwerked to one side quizzically. “Baths?”

“Thank you, Madellaine.” Griffith said, moving a little awkwardly out into the hall on his crutch.

The maid visibly relaxed when Griffith appeared, smiling at her.

She smiled back at him in that genuine, untarnished way only children who hadn't yet become acquainted with the world could. “Of course my Lord Griffith. Thank you. They’re just through there, Sir.” She pointed to the adjacent door. Through it Guts could see the edge of an elaborate wooden bathing screen, the cheerful flickering of the fire peeking out from behind it.

The maid smiled and puffed up her chest, looking like a proud little hen who'd just laid her first egg. “I set out the cleaning tonic and hair oils you requested too, my Lord. They’re on the bathing stool near the fire. There’s some wine and sweet meats as well.”

Griffith nodded at her, his face betraying his eagerness to bathe alongside his gratitude. Guts cast repentant eyes at the floor. Griffith was clearly not able to groom himself to his usual standard with his injuries and Guts felt terrible he hadn't offered to help him with it sooner. He knew how much pride Griffith took in his appearance, regardless of how humble he was about accepting compliments. Though Guts really hated to admit it he'd been avoiding spending time alone with Griffith in any state of undress for reasons that both shamed and confused him. Seeing Griffith nude had never bothered him before. It was always a bit different than being nude around the rest of the men, sure, but he'd always chalked that up to Griffith's unabashed enthusiasm for bathing and his feminine appearance. But the discomfort he felt now was different. More…visceral.

Griffith's voice chimed over Guts’ thoughts like church bells. “You run along now my dear.”

The girl was looking at him, surprised. She tilted her head down, fiddling with the frayed end of her apron string. “But Ruth said I’m to assist you and--” She eyed Guts with something akin to terror “--y-your guard captain bathe.”

“You heard him,” Guts grumbled impatiently, jerking his thumb. “Get outta here kid.” He didn't mean to be harsh, but he wasn't going to have someone that young attend him in any state of undress.

Griffith studied him for a moment, face completely unreadable, before turning to the girl. His shoulder dropped and he shook his head with finality. “You'd best do as he says and run along.”

“But my Lord Griffith, Ruth will punish me if I--”

With some difficulty, Griffith knelt. Speaking to her at her level he proposed a solution. “You may tell this ‘Ruth’ to come speak with me if she has a problem with a Knight Commander bathing himself, alright?”

Her eyes shining with relief the girl did the most unthinkable childlike thing possible and threw her arms around his neck.

“I will my Lord, thank you ever so much!”

Looking, at first, quite startled by her outburst of affection, Griffith skewed a bewildered look at Guts, who struggled not to laugh. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. This was certainly something a girl her age would have been scolded for, possibly even whipped for under other circumstances, but for some reason she’d ignored her instincts and latched onto Griffith anyway. It wasn’t really surprising; kids and animals always seemed to gravitate to him in the sweetest way.

A sudden realization that she’d just done something inappropriate--something _childish_ \--flew across the girl’s face and she jumped back from Griffith with a gasp.

“I--I’m very sorry!” Nodding and curtsying almost as afterthoughts she rushed off, leather slippers softly clipping on the stone.

“You really are something else, Griffith,” Guts chuckled. “You make women who aren't even _women_ yet blush and bolt.”

Griffith stayed kneeling and after some time without a reply Guts tapped him on the shoulder. “You need a hand up?”

Griffith ignored him yet again and Guts glanced about with dismal uncertainty.

“What crime is it for a child to _act_ like a child?” Griffith murmured bitterly.

“Uh…” Guts scratched his head, pretty sure Griffith wanted him to respond, though not entirely. The guy did talk to himself a lot. “That's just the way life is,” he shrugged. “Faster she grows up the faster she can take care of herself. For now she should be thankful she’s got food and a warm place to sleep. Someone who knows her name. I had a lot less at a much younger age.”

Griffith tensed for a moment, then finally let out a breath of resignation. “It was much the same for me after my mother passed I suppose, but...” He cast heavy eyes upward and the tension in Guts’ chest ratcheted tighter. He hated seeing such uncertainty in the eyes of a man who was supposed to know everything.

“That doesn’t mean I approve. Sending a young girl _alone_ to bathe grown men? Despicable.”

“I've said it before, Griffith: nobles are greedy as sin and fucked in the head.” This earned Guts a chilled look of contempt so icy his balls shivered. He backpedaled, his hands waving. “I'm not saying _you_ are, cuz you aren't really a--dammit, I mean you weren't born and raised like a--you're--you--shit, you know what I mean! You're a good, honest man working for what you want and, sad as it is, men like us don't change things.”

Griffith's face shifted sternly and a dagger shot his way. “Thinking like that is precisely why men like _you_ don't change things.”

Guts took a preemptive breath, but ultimately couldn't argue. He couldn't even take it as a slight because he knew Griffith was telling the truth. Griffith knew better. He always did. He always would. There was something oddly comforting about that thought.

“Nothing we can do about the way things are until you get that kingdom so why worry about it now?”

Something small and hurt passed behind Griffith’s eyes and he looked away, gaze vacant and distant. “Wouldn’t you go back and do things again, if it meant having a chance at a normal childhood? Go back and--”

Guts’ shoulders and neck went rigid. “Fuck no! My life was worse than shit and yours was too, but you know what? It made us better goddamn men.”

“I suppose. Still, I--”

Guts groaned and pulled Griffith to his feet with one smooth jerk that wrung a startled yip from his commander. Gut’s looked down at him pointedly.

“You need to cheer up. Forget you ever met that girl, forget I said anything, and stop feeling like shit about things that aren't your fault because I’d like to take a _hot_ bath for once and that’s not gonna happen if we don’t get a move on.”

Incredulity washed over Griffith's face and Guts barred his canines in a teasing grin before hauling him under one arm into the bathroom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know he didn't fuck Guts, but, Bob, my thirsty, thirsty bro, I hope this chapter tides you over to the main event. Not much longer now my dude. Don't dry out ;)


	9. Warmth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note:
> 
> I have a work project coming due next Friday so my writing time will be severely limited. As a result there won't be a chapter on March 8th. I was originally going to make this chapter into two parts to compensate, however I felt cutting it wasn't really an option as it broke the flow of the emotions that are sort of necessary for this to be effective so I just posted one long chapter. Next update will be March 15th
> 
> Thank you for your patience, your love and your time.

The room was elaborate, even for a dressing chamber. Guts set Griffith down on the padded bench near the tubs then began to admire the intricately carved wooden panels of the bathing screen near the fireplace. He dragged his rough fingers over the delicately carved swans and cranes that decorated every inch.

“Beautiful isn’t it? I have one very much like it at home.”

Guts jumped at Griffith’s voice so near his ear. He always snuck up on him like that, a fact Guts detested. He did not like surprises.

“You’re awfully tense, Guts,” Griffith teased. “Is something the matter?”

Guts jerked his head no then stalked over to the table of refreshments. He was impressed by the ultra modern cover: a sheet of linen saturated in wax that could be crimped around a dish or jug to keep things moist and pest free. Griffith kept a few pieces in his tent to cover plates and bowls he was too busy to finish. They weren't cheap. Beneath the slightly tacky sheet Guts found sweetmeats, cheese and bread. "You need a bell or something. You’re too damn quiet.”

Behind him, Griffith chuckled. Guts didn’t turn around, instead occupying himself by shoving a handful of dusty green cubes into his mouth that looked appetizing. They were so sweet and sticky it made him reel. He nearly spit them out, but didn’t want to look like an uncultured simpleton in front of Griffith. He swallowed them after a bare minimum amount of chewing and quickly washed them down with a half glass of wine. He was surprised by how good it was. A far finer quality than he was used to drinking and he took another glass--this time a full one.

“Hey this stuff is actually pretty great,” Guts said, gesturing with his glass. “Want me to pour you some?”

Griffith, who had moved behind the bathing screen, focused on him for a moment, his gaze calculating, but warm. Guts shifted his weight uncomfortably back and forth, looking everywhere else in the room but into those intense blue eyes. After a moment of deliberation Griffith nodded and Guts brought him a glass.

They sat there sipping their wine and chatting about other finery and details in the room Guts didn’t care about, until Griffith exhaled with finality. “Right. Shall we get to it?”

As Griffith unceremoniously removed his shirt, Guts could feel his heart fluttering like a bird trapped in his rib cage.

“There we are,” Griffith chimed brightly, tossing his silk shirt onto a nearby chair. He picked up his wine glass and drained the rest of its contents, then held it out to Guts, the look in his eyes cheeky and expectant. Guts took it, noting how rosy Griffith’s cheeks were.

Guts scratched his chin and shrugged a ‘why not’, rolling his eyes. He went to fill their glasses from the long-necked decanter and wondered if maybe it was just the heat of the room flushing Griffith’s face like that? They _were_ sitting near the fire. The wine also didn’t taste much stronger than what they were used to drinking, though admittedly, Guts drank a hell of a lot more than Griffith and with far greater regularity which made him a poor judge.

When he turned around he nearly dropped the glasses. Griffith was sitting on the padded bench near the screen, his tight breeches worked down to his knees.

He realized Guts was looking at him and gave a sheepish grin. “I...may need some assistance.”

“Take ‘em off yourself you’re halfway there as it is,” Guts grumbled, his own cheeks flushing lightly. He hoped Griffith would assume it was the wine and not his unabashed nakedness that was causing it.

“I tried, but alas with one arm this is as far as I could get before it started to hurt.” He gave an adorable childlike giggle and Guts had to quirk his mouth to keep from laughing.

“Your ankle?”

“My _everything_ ,” Griffith replied with an exaggeratedly weary tilt of his head.

Oh, it was _definitely_ the wine, Guts decided.

“Alright just a second. Take this.” He handed Griffith back his glass and set his own on the table nearby.

Griffith leaned back on the bench and took a long sip.“This is awfully good wine,” he commented lazily, swirling the contents of his glass before taking another long sip. “I’ll have to ask Roland which vineyard it came from.”

Guts cocked his brow. “Roland?”

Griffith jerked like he’d just been slapped, then shrugged loosely with one shoulder. “Oh, that--never mind, forget I said anything.” The alcohol was softening the edges of his voice and rounding his syllables in a way Guts found both endearing and humorous. He’d never seen Griffith so oddly intoxicated that it was hard to focus on anything else. He let the comment slide without a second thought and with forced aplomb knelt in front of him.

He prayed the eager sigh Griffith gave under his breath was his imagination. The slight twinge between his legs said otherwise, but he'd ignored it before and he wasn't going to make an exception now.

He pulled Griffith's trousers down over his knees carefully, then gently extended Griffith’s injured left leg. Holding the curve of his calf in one hand Guts worked the material down with the other. He found himself marveling over how feminine Griffith’s legs were. Long, suitably curved and supple. Body hair so fair and fine it was practically nonexistent. They felt disturbingly good in his hands. Guts appreciated a nice pair of legs on a woman and, had Griffith actually _been_ a woman, his were the type of legs Guts would be especially happy to find underneath a dress; to spread apart and bury his head betwe--

Wait! What was he thinking? Shaking his head to rid himself of such thoughts he tried to ignore the confusing warmth blooming in his groin. The tight binding immobilizing Griffith's ankle made it a little difficult to navigate the fabric over it and in his rush to finish he jostled it by mistake. Griffith drew a sharp breath and Guts immediately apologized.

“It’s fine don’t worry,” came Griffith’s magnanimous reply.

Careful not to raise his eyeline past Griffith’s knees as he worked, Guts looked away even further as he stood up.

“Thank you very much, Guts.” Griffith said. An appreciative, albeit lopsided, smile awaited Guts on his face.  “I appreciate your help. All of it. Not just--” he gestured loosely with his glass toward his pants and hiccuped,”-- _this_ , but everything. The horses, the journey here, every battle throughout my campaign, just, everything. You’ve always been there and I just wanted to say thank you.”

Guts laughed to hide his discomfort over being praised and removed his shirt. “Shut up and get in the tub you drunken idiot.”

Griffith lolled his head to one side and gave Guts a saucy, half-lidded look. “Your motion has been duly noted, however it is the decision of the court not to acquiesce.”

“I don’t know what you just said, but it sounded like ‘I’m being difficult so pick me up and put me in the tub’.”  The shock on Griffith’s face when Guts did exactly this was priceless. Griffith made a brief show of resistance, but it was as half-hearted an attempt as Guts had ever seen.

“There,” Griffith huffed. “I’m in the tub. Might I please have another glass of that fabulous wine?”

“No.” Guts took the glass from his hand and tossed a clean washcloth at him. “Clean up first, then you can have more.”

Griffith slumped into the water just a little, making him look a bit like a mermaid from some high-court tapestry, albeit a grumpy one. Just like a mermaid, he soon took to enjoying the bath as Guts had expected him to from the start. Griffith was more refined than himself and took much better care of his appearance than any other man he knew. This included bathing at least once a day, sometimes even morning and night depending on what they’d done and how filthy they were. Guts was actually surprised Griffith hadn’t said anything about a bath sooner. Xavier had given him a sponge bath to help clean off the mud and forest filth he’d fallen into when he’d injured himself, but that had been five days ago now.

“That’s so much better,” Griffith breathed, his voice sliding out of him totally relaxed. “May I please have my glass of wine now? It’s rather good.” Griffith threw the damp cloth at Guts as though to ‘trade him’ and it accidentally hit him in the face. He of course went red then burst out laughing. Clutching his sides he choked out an apology, and Guts threw the cloth back at him. It hit his chest with a wet ‘splat!’ then dropped into the water.

“If you weren’t drunk off your horse I’d--”

“Drunk? I’m not drunk.” Griffith paused, then his face lit up like he’d seen god. “Goodness _am_ I drunk?” his features skewed ponderously, brows high and questioning. “I suppose I am aren’t I?” He giggled like a child at this realization. “I wonder what type of wine that was? My word...”

Guts muttered under his breath about the mercy of god protecting idiots then turned to undress the rest of the way. If he’d waited a moment longer, he would have seen the blush of nervous anticipation bloom across Griffith's delicate features.

 

 

After Guts finished his own bath Griffith cleared his throat from the tub beside him. “I hate to keep asking you for help, but I need your assistance with one more thing.”

Guts gave a good-natured groan. “It’s fine. I don’t exactly have anything else to do in this place besides help you.” He hesitated, then said, “Unless you need help wiping your ass. No way in hell I'm bloody do--”

“No no it’s nothing like that I assure you!” Griffith laughed, waving his hand. “I need you to wash my hair. It’s a fairly simple process it just requires more hands than I currently have.” He indicated to his sprained wrist.

“Don’t know the first thing about that,” Guts huffed curtly. Such things were not very masculine and he found he was rather uncomfortable talking about them. “You sure you want me to do it? I could call a maid.”

Griffith was silent for a long while. The merry pop of the fire behind them helped warm the silence, though when Griffith didn’t reply, Guts cracked an eye and looked over at him. He looked crushed, like a kid who’d asked a question and swiftly been told it was a stupid one. 

“Alright, fine," Guts sighed remorsefully. "I guess I'm going to have to learn something new.” He got out of the tub and put his hands on his hips. “Okay then, Commander,” he said, giving a begrudging smirk, “Command.”

For a second Griffith didn’t respond. He just sat there, staring like he’d seen a ghost. Guts coughed and Griffith blinked rapidly. “Right, yes I--That jar. The brown clay one over there. You’ll need that.”

Guts riffled through the small collection. “This one?”

“Yes that’s right,” Griffith confirmed. “And the small glass one beside it--there’s a lemon burnt on the cork--you’ll need that as well.”

Guts brought them both over and set them on the ground beside Griffith’s tub. Griffith had lain back so his neck was resting on the edge, his hair draped over the side. For a moment Guts just stared at him, illuminated in the soft amber glow of the fire. Even in need of a wash his hair shone and gleamed in the firelight, reflecting the colors almost like stained glass. Collecting himself, Guts moved a squat wooden bathing stool into place and sat down to work, trying to ignore the rapid rise of heat in his face and neck.

“Okay so what do I do with these?” He grumbled, trying to hide his uncertainty.

“Pour it slowly from here--” Griffith indicated to an area about halfway between his hairline and the crown of his head, “-- and let it run down my hair into the basin at your feet. You’ll probably need the entire bottle.”

Guts picked up the spouted earthenware jar and removed the lid.

“Oh,” Griffith added quickly, “I ought to mention--”

 _“Ugh bloody hell!”_ Immediately overtaken by a powerful burning sensation blazing up his nostrils and into the corners of his eyes Guts’ arms shot out, holding the jar as far away from his body as he was able. “What _is_ this stuff, poison!?”

Griffith laughed. “Water, lye and burnt grape stems,” he explained, an amused smile tinting his words. “It’s not the most pleasant smelling concoction, but it works far better than anything else in my experience.”

Guts’ face contorted into a grimace of disgust. “Why didn’t you tell me!”

“I did try. It’s not my fault you stuck your nose in there like a--”

“Eat shit, asshole! I almost died!”

Griffith chuckled with amusement. “Don’t be so dramatic it’s not _that_ bad. Besides, your nose will get used to it. Trust me.”

Feeling put out by what he interpreted as a childish reprimand, but not wanting to say anything to that effect, Guts wrinkled his nose and held his breath, pouring the strong smelling cleansing agent over Griffith’s hair.

As much as he hated to admit it, by the time the small jar was empty and Griffith’s hair fully saturated, Guts _had_ gotten used to the odour.

“So now what? Is this stuff safe to touch?”

“Yes of course it is. You just need to work it through my hair now.”

Guts felt a pang of anxiety grip his chest. “Seems... simple enough,” he grumbled absently.

Griffith relaxed a bit further down into the water and closed his eyes. “It is.”

Guts was inundated with the feeling it was taboo to touch someone else's hair, or...maybe just Griffith’s hair. He didn’t know. It was definitely one of Griffith’s most defining features and the first thing many people commented on in regards to his near-angelic level of beauty. It felt wrong somehow to touch it, though if he’d been asked not a day before if he had such feelings he would have said no.

As though sensing his apprehension, Griffith softly encouraged him. “Don’t worry; unless you intentionally try to pull it out, you can’t hurt it. Just be gentle and it’ll work out fine.”

This comment actually helped boost Gut’s confidence enough for him to swallow his anxieties and begin. He repeated it over and over in his mind as he tentatively took hold of the soaking wet hair: _Gentle. Gentle. Gentle._

How did you do things gently? He couldn’t remember. Nobody had ever been gentle with him in his entire life! His brain felt fogged by some mysterious cloud that made even simple things seem impossibly complex.

Griffith’s hair was as soft as Guts imagined it would be. He felt guilty for touching it with his calloused hands, as though they were going to destroy it.

Griffith let out a sigh of pleasure as Guts started working, his hand gripping the edge of the tub a little tighter. “That feels wonderful. Good work.”

Guts ignored the swelling in his groin this comment brought about and with incredibly careful motions worked the product through Griffith’s thick curls. It was repetitive and mesmerizing. Strangely relaxing. He felt like he was in a trance.

Yawning, Griffith sat up just a little. “My apologies, but I’m afraid I’m falling asleep. You can--" He paused to let out a big yawn"--rinse it out now.”

Guts' heart swelled affectionately at this, despite his trying not to let it. He felt proud he'd accomplished something he'd been so worried about messing up. People didn’t fall asleep on you if you were hurting them right?

He retrieved the bucket of fresh water that had been warming near the far side of the hearth for just this purpose and poured cup after cup through Griffith’s hair. He wrung it out and squeezed it, working out all the tonic until it squeaked under his fingers.

By the time he was through, the catch basin between his feet was filled to the brim. He had a moment to wonder where the water went when they were through before Griffith turned around and caught him with his eyes. “Thank you,” was all he said. His warm look of gratitude said the rest and Guts blushed in earnest this time.

They stared at one another comfortably until Guts broke the moment--refusing to admit that that was even what it was--by coughing and clearing his throat. “So, uh, the next bottle? That’s--what is that? I have to put that on now or…?”

Griffith blinked at him a few times: huge, dark, fans of lashes. “Oh,” he said absently, “Yes.”

He explained how to dry his hair and apply the oil and Guts nodded, picking up a striped blue linen towel and the small bottle. Holding it away from him as though it would explode, Guts shut one eye and squinted the other, gingerly uncorking the small bottle. He immediately felt like an idiot. It didn’t smell bad at all, in fact, it filled the room with a scent so familiar it sent an instant wave of calm through his body. The fragrance was one of the main elements that made up Griffith’s appealing personal scent.

Guts unfortunately wasn't very eloquent when it came to putting his appreciation into words. “Smells a lot better than that other shit. What’s it made of?”

Griffith turned slightly, giving Guts access to his hair. “It’s an imported mixture from the empire: olive oil, crushed lavender and lemon zest.”

How Griffith could afford to regularly put imported olive oil in his hair concerned Guts just a little, though he didn’t say anything about it. “I like it,” he admitted, albeit awkwardly tight-lipped, “It really--” he struggled to find the right word,“--it suits you.”

He set the bottle down and raked his fingers over Griffith's shoulder with the intention of patting it dry as he'd been instructed. He gathered it carefully, pulling all the hair into a thick damp cord at the nape of his neck. This left large swathes of creamy, bare skin, glittering and shining gently in the firelight. Without thinking he put a hand to his shoulder and immediately the softness of Griffith's skin surprised him. In fact, he couldn't stop himself rounding his palm and pressing it to fit the curve of Griffith's neck. It was a strangely soothing endeavor and his initial stationary touch turned hesitantly to light exploring. Caressing. Marveling at the impossible softness of his skin, Guts found himself leaning closer and closer until finally he drew in the scent of his friend's warm, damp skin. It was a threshold he hadn't known he could cross--at least, not with another man--and the idea sent strange ideas flitting about his brain like butterflies over a lazy summer field.

Griffith was a statue, taking breaths so shallow that his pulse fluttering visibly beneath his jaw was the only real sign of life left. Guts took a quick deep breath as his brain caught up with his instincts and, in a pause so small a hair couldn’t have passed between it and the next moment, he realized how close they truly were. He had a choice to make then: to pull away or to stay, but he found his body moving on its own. The wine was allowing him to give into things he forbid himself from acknowledging under normal circumstances and he was strangely okay with that. He stroked the short downy hairs just below Griffith's ear with the tip of his nose. Then with his lips. He kissed his neck softly, just once. Softer than you’d kiss the head of a babe in arms, but it was enough. Griffith twitched, shuddered, a poorly stifled groan catching in his throat. This startled Guts back into himself. He jerked away, offering a half-hearted excuse, an apology; he didn’t know which, his mouth wasn’t working properly and his head was awash with color.

“Griffith--”

Guts’ chest tightened in panic, but before he could look away Griffith had turned around, the water splashing and rippling gently around his nude body. The firelight set off the brilliance of his blue eyes and the intensity in them made Guts both fearful and eager all at once. Eager for--  
His breathing grew heavier and he leaned further back on the stool, afraid of himself. What he might say. Do.  
There was something new resonating in Griffith's eyes now. Something raw and deeply masculine that, even sitting down, made Guts’ knees weak. He trembled, scooting back so fast he actually fell off the short stool onto the stone.  
  
Where normally Griffith would have laughed at him doing something foolish, there was now only that fierce, needy, intensity. “Are you frightened of me?” Griffith asked, tone reverently hushed and oddly self-deprecating.  
Guts tried to say something. 'No!' He wanted to scream, and 'yes!'... but nothing would come out. How could he explain any of what he was feeling to Griffith when even he wasn't sure what was wrong. He turned sheepishly from Griffith’s searching expression, his hand moving awkwardly to the back of his neck.

A slosh of water and a small sound of pain drew Guts’ attention. Griffith was trying to get out of the tub: to come closer.

“Hey!” Guts cried, “Sit down you’re going to--!”

Startled and drunk, Griffith lost his balance on his good ankle and reflexively stepped out with his broken one to steady himself. He yelped like a beaten dog and Guts scrambled to become a makeshift landing pad. Catching him at such a strange angle sent them both sprawling to the floor. Breathing hard, Guts held him for one intense moment, cradling Griffith to him protectively. “You _idiot,”_ he fumed darkly, checking Griffith with a perfunctory glance to make sure he was alright. “You could have re-broken--”

Griffith's lips swiftly silenced him. In a rushing tidal wave of emotions, sensations,  every nook and cranny of Guts’ being was filled--so much so he didn’t know what to react to first and felt his heart might burst. In the absence of said reaction Griffith pressed his hand to Guts’ face, taking control, and deepening the kiss. Coaxed him to respond with his lips and teeth, all the while making contradictory sounds of yearning. Eager sounds. Sounds that Guts’ lower body responded to aggressively. He twitched and swelled beneath Griffith's body, pressing up into his warm, naked, thigh. His hips bucked and ground upward reflexively, finding delicious purchase against supple, damp, flesh. The resulting sounds of confused pleasure and helpless lust were lost inside Griffith's mouth. His tongue slipped in along with them. Zings of lightning flew around his mouth, spreading outward through his body and condensing in his groin. It felt incredible. Indescribable.  
Griffith took this as an opportunity to slide his hand down and gently cup his groin and Guts jerked, mind flashing vicious images of pain and fear and a dark stranger looming above him when he was small. So small and so afraid. His entire body tingled and buzzed as though he’d been struck down by the lightning that, until then, had been a wonderful new source of enjoyment. His hands and feet were so numb with it he could hardly feel them.

 _“Nngh_ \-- _! No!”_ He shouted, high and terrified. Shoving Griffith aside roughly, he scrambled back in a panic to get out from under him, from under the dark stranger in his memories. The man who hurt him so badly in _that_ place. The place Griffith’s eyes said he wanted to violate now.

He nearly backed into the fireplace he was so frightened by what he was feeling. What he was seeing in his mind. His heart was tight, like a ripe berry about to burst.

Hurt by this rejection, and showing it in his eyes, his voice, Griffith reached out, “Guts, Please--”

Guts couldn’t listen anymore. He stared in confusion at Griffith, tears burning the edges of his eyes. He longed to hold Griffith’s beautiful face in his hands, to kiss him, make him smile again, but along with that desire came fear and pain. So much pain, he thought he’d gotten rid of the night he’d strayed from Gambino’s company and killed Donovan for what he’d done to him in that tent. He'd thought then that he’d removed it, a clean slate, but now he was realizing that it had only been put to sleep, waiting to rise as it was now, like a dark nightmare, to consume the light.

His feet were carrying him at great speed from the room before he even realized it. He could hear Griffith yelling in the distance for him to come back and it tore something in his heart. He wanted to go back, but he couldn’t make his feet stop. The instinct to flee his pain, his waking nightmare, was too overpowering.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Griffith is on an opiod-based medication and drank alcohol.  
> Griffith is an idiot.  
> Don't be like Griffith.


	10. Reprieve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I overestimated my work load and underestimated how badly I want to make you guys happy so you get a chapter this week after all.

Long after Guts fled the room, long after the fire had reduced to a pile of flickering grey embers, Griffith remained on the floor. The slithering voice in his head coiled around his thoughts.

_You failed him O’ Desirous One. Never again will he put his trust in you._

Curled on his side, hair disheveled and splayed around him like a tangled fishing net, he stared into the coals, at the face that lay within them. One lidless burning eye pierced his as it silently whispered:

_Failure. Weakness. Despair._

Through Griffith’s mind, blank and emotionless, the words filtered down to the core of his being like rotting debris to the deepest fathoms of the ocean.

_He could smell them upon you._

The worst parts of himself fed on these unspoken words like skittering bottom feeders, fueling his self-loathing. The eye broke its monotonous drawl and laughed at him, delighting in his misery, glowing brighter.

_The reek of desperation clings to you like cobwebs, Great King. Perhaps...a bath to rid you of it?_

Griffith could taste that mocking glee like a rancid sludge at the back of his throat. A muscle slid in his jaw as his teeth clenched. He was such a fool. He couldn’t hold himself in check when Guts had kissed his neck and because of that he’d ruined any chance he may have had of being happy. His chest caved as his shoulders heaved.  His wrist and ankle throbbed with pain as he let the tears come, but he didn’t care. He’d driven away the only person he’d ever desired to have at his side. What was a little pain compared to that?

The rough stone floor pressed harshly against his naked body. He could feel the mortared grooves against his flesh. They were cold and uncomfortably rough but still he didn’t move. Even if he did what was the point? He let his eyes fall shut as he gave up holding back his tears.The voice dove at his exposed soul, speaking to him now like a mother might to her child.

_You’re nothing to him, Dear One. Not as he is to you. Your treasure. Your prize. Not yet. But…_

The female presence stroked his hair.

... _If your will is strong enough, there are ways to make it so._

For the first time in his life, Griffith was intrigued by what the voice had to say. It seemed to sense his receptiveness and drawled on in dulcet echoing tones.

_If only you could see how beloved you will be to the people of this world. The glory and light you will bring to them must not be compromised. The world is yours for the taking. And so is he._

For the first time in his life, Griffith drew an eerie sense of comfort from the intruding voice. It had never spoken to him as a female before. It reminded him of what little he could remember about his mother. His consciousness curled against it, huddled there until he reached a state of peace he could only recall ever reaching twice before; The first as a small child, cuddled against his mother’s side as she sang to him and the unborn infant in her womb--the very child destined to die and take her with it; The second time, when his behelit was first placed around his neck.

He let the words of comfort lull him off to a blissful, dreamless, nightmare.

 

\-----

 

A beam of sunlight trekking diligently across Griffith’s right eyelid slowly roused him from sleep. His lashes fluttered and he brought a hand up sleepily to block it. The sound of birds chirping outside the window filtered into his realm of consciousness, along with relaxed breathing coming from the far side of the bed. He was so comfortably enveloped in softness and warmth--enjoying a real bed for the first time in months--that the oddities inherent in the situation didn’t quite register with him at first. As soon as they did a chain reaction was set off in his mind and he rolled as quickly as he could, eyes wide. His eyes fell on a sparsely clothed man asleep on his side and his heart skipped a beat. The man’s face was hidden in the pillow, but Griffith knew who it was.

“Guts…” His hand trembled hesitantly. Emotions leapt through his mind in rapid succession like lions through hoops: surprise, frustration, affection, regret, all shadowed by a stalking fear of rejection. Thankfully, his relief superseded it all. So much so he was nearly brought to tears.

How, when, why Guts had come back: none of these details mattered. The only thing that did was that he was there.

Griffith paused as memories drifted out of the ether and into the fore: Someone picking him up, helping him into bed. It was so hazy that, without context and conscious thought, he would easily have assumed it had been part of a dream. The wine must have been far stronger than he thought to fog his memories so severely.

As he rationalized the situation, his anxiety settled down as well. His heart rate steadily dropped and his chest swelled as he took air deep into his lungs. His lashes felt heavy and dipped, nearly closing as he gathered himself. He wanted to shut them completely, but he didn't dare take his eyes away from Guts. He feared he’d disappear, like a remnant from a dream.

For a long while all he did was watch the rise and fall of Guts' chest as he slept peacefully on into the morning. His mind was at ease, his body relaxed. Long had he desired a moment such as this one to present itself; a chance to study his dear friend up close in the daylight without any risk of being noticed.

It had started innocently enough: he’d just wanted to see how Guts trained when nobody else was watching. As his commander he felt it was his right to know, so he could make any necessary suggestions for improvement when the opportunity presented itself in casual conversation. He preferred to give constructive criticism to his men's routines this way, rather than as direct orders, so as not to trample their self-esteem. He found his methods kept their morale--and loyalty--higher than the alternative.

Things had rapidly devolved from an innocent desire as a leader to better his most valuable soldier's performance, to a need much more intimate and personal. Thankfully their proximity to one another in camp and high level of interaction on a daily basis aided his willpower in preventing him from acting on it, or, at least, more often than not. To his everlasting shame, there had been a small handful of times where he’d managed to distance himself from Guts and everyone else long enough that Guts lost track of him. Long enough for Griffith to press unnoticed around a shaded tree trunk, rear of a tent or side of a wagon to secretly, intently, observe him. Oiling his armor, training his horse, bathing in the river...

Griffith squeezed his eyes shut. That was in the past. Now he was free to watch Guts at his leisure and he thanked whatever god of good fortune had seen fit to give him the opportunity.

_Look, but do not touch. Not yet. He's not ready. Not Yet._

Griffith winced, ignoring the strange female voice, who had seemingly pushed out the male voice to dominate his torment. Or would that be voices? He hadn't known there was more than one before now. He was usually too hellbent on shoving it out of his conscious awareness to notice if there was ever a difference in how it sounded.

Guts mumbled something incoherent and Griffith's attention snapped to him like a dog to its master's whistle. He was curled modestly on top of the green duvet like some massive black and gold hound, his face partially hidden in the feather pillows. He shifted around a bit, letting out a small unfiltered sound of pleasure as he found a more comfortable position. Tenderness filled Griffith's eyes for a moment, but it was fleeting. His finely tuned mind was rapidly being overpowered by his bodies carnal reactions to Guts' barely clothed body and affection had no place among them. He drew a shaking breath, dragging his eyes with sensual fascination over the swells of muscle; taut hollows of bone and sinew; broad expanses of soft, tanned flesh. Guts wore nothing more than a pair of tight-fitting under breeches, which somehow only served to enhance his nakedness. Griffith shuddered suddenly with desire and disgust, simultaneously protesting and accepting the fact that he too had base desires like any other man. He had long since thought himself above such things, his personal pursuits the only form of satisfaction he swore he would ever need. After all, only animals were at the mercy of their libidinous instincts, and animals, Griffith had long since realized, were so very easy to control.

_Find out what he wants and even a raging bull will let you lead him around by the nose. Or the cock, in your case, Dear One._

His rose-petal lips pursed as he winced in dreadful embarrassment, cheeks hot as a blacksmiths forge.

As Griffith continued his visual exploration, his desire to make it a tactile one grew rapidly. He longed to press his hand to things he had so fleetingly felt the night before. His mouth craved the meal he had sampled, then been denied. It started in his fingertips; a tingle, a twitch. His mouth followed suit and he drew his lower lip between his teeth. All the while, his mind was fighting to keep his hand in his lap, though it was fighting a losing battle. 

At first all he did was drag a small piece of Guts' hair through his fingers. It was surprisingly smooth. When nothing bad came of that, he did it again; a larger strand this time. Then again, and again, until finally he was confidently running his entire hand through it. Carefully, lovingly, he caressed him, played with pieces of hair, smoothing and stroking him like one would a beloved pet. It wasn’t an inherently intimate act on its own, in fact he was getting more stimulation emotionally than he was physically. He found it odd, but immensely relaxing and so continued to do so for quite some time, right up until Guts started to stir. He drew his hand back swiftly, his nerves once again on edge.

Guts cracked open a single bleary eye, but it was a half-hearted attempt at best. He closed it with a rough-throated grunt and rolled over. Very eloquent.

Griffith rolled his eyes. He was relieved Guts had, apparently, failed to notice what he'd been doing, but was also put out he was going back to sleep. He wanted to ask him about the previous night; why he’d run, where he went and, most pressing of all, why he was sleeping beside him now. Fortunately, as his men would attest, Griffith was nothing if not patient. With a contented sigh he curled his uninjured arm under his head and settled onto his side. Waiting. Watching. Wanting. 


	11. Stay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I fell asleep last night,_   
>  _with the urge to kiss you._   
>  _The ache when I awoke told me,_   
>  _just how much I miss you._

Griffith woke up for the second time that morning to a scream of surprise and a scrambling ‘THUD!’. He rubbed his eye, kicking himself for falling back to sleep. Guts was shuffling about out of sight, clearly disoriented. Silently Griffith sat up and peered over the edge of the bed, controlling his breathing so he wouldn't spook him.

Guts pinched the bridge of his nose. “Fuck. Right.” He turned back to the bed and jumped, startled to see Griffith staring at him so quietly.

"Dammit! Stop doing that!”

“Stop doing what, Guts?”

Guts looked at him like he had two heads. _“Staring at me!_ It’s bloody creepy! _”_

He turned away to compose himself, then hesitantly looked back toward Griffith, too guilty to make eye contact. His face was pale, his brow dewed with sweat. Griffith was trying hard to keep the hurt from showing on his face, but wasn’t doing a very good job. Guts grimaced. Putting the heel of his palm to his brow he said, “Sorry. I'm hungover and you scared the hell out of me.”

Griffith cocked his head slowly then tucked his chin to his chest. “I’m the one who should be apologizing for--”

Guts’ words came clipped and harsh. “Would you stop being so goddamn accommodating? I lost my temper and snapped at you, just let me apologize alright?” He rubbed his temples and winced in pain.

“Yes of course, I'll try to be less deferential after you've been drinking,” Griffith said, his voice holding an air of humour. When Guts didn’t react negatively he let a smile turn the corner of his mouth. Guts put his knees up and leaned forward, resting his arms on them.

“Last night was a mistake. I swore to Casca I would protect you with my life, from anything and everything. I thought I could manage that, right up until you--” his eyes squeezed shut as his voice suddenly lost power. He was gripping his other wrist so tight his knuckles were turning white. Griffith was concerned, but didn’t want to trigger another reaction like the one the night before and kept quiet. After several deep breaths, his intuition paid off and Guts let go.

“I couldn’t deal with it--the crap in my head,” He muttered, hand cupped over his mouth. “I ran. Like a bloody coward.”

His curled shoulders and wavering voice plucked at Griffith’s heartstrings. He wanted to hold him, tell him that it was alright, that he understood, but how?

“God, If something had happened to you I never would’ve forgiven myself.”

Griffith hadn’t been expecting an apology, nor for Guts to be the one to bring up the previous night. He cleared his throat, then in a subdued tone asked, “Where did you go?”

“To find some stronger booze. Wrap my head around everything.”

Griffith went rigid. This somehow sounded like the start of goodbye. The thousand pound boulder suspended just above his fluttering heart sank a little lower with each word, crushing it slowly.

_He’s going to leave you. You’ll be alone again. So alone._

“You certainly had a reason.”

“Still doesn’t make it right. Friend or not, I'm guarding you and I left my post. You ought to whip--”

Griffith put up a hand. “It’s quite alright, Guts. I’m certain I could have handled myself if someone really had come for my life.” He neglected to mention that physical assassinations were not nearly as common as powdered glass or poison, which were almost impossible to trace back to the source. He smiled darkly. _Almost._

“I’m not a homo, got it?”

Griffith flinched, doing a double take. Gut’s eye were dark, his brow furrowed. He jabbed a finger at Griffith. “I don’t know why I let you kiss me, but it was a mistake--one that’s never happening again.”

Guts’ countenance was determined, yet fragile; like he didn’t believe his own convictions. His head swung away, chin pressed to his shoulder. “I’m not like _you.”_

An ominous dread crept up Griffith's spine. “What do you mean, ' _l_ _ike me_ ’?” he asked, eyes honing defensively. Their conversation was heading them straight for a stormy sea-cliff and Guts didn’t seem to care. The dark presence  in Griffith’s mind luxuriated gleefully in his misery like a cat in a warm patch of sun and Griffith bit his cheek spitefully.

Guts ran a hand through his hair. “I shouldn’t have to spell it out.”

Griffith was in no mood for equivocation. He centered a piercing blue stare on Guts. It struck home like an arrow.  _“Humor me."_

“Fine! You let other men use you for sex! Or maybe you do it to them?" He grimaced with disgust. "Look I’m just saying I’m not like that, I don’t want you to get the wrong idea.”

Something snapped and Griffith's hand pressed to his collarbone. “Goodness! Do I _really?_ I had no idea.Thank you so very much for enlightening me, my friend.” His tone and expression were mocking, dismissive and, in a strange way, apologetic, though the airy blue of his eyes conveyed a much darker pallet of emotion simmering within. “And what source are you basing these accusations on, might I ask?”

Guts’ face was growing redder by the second, his shoulders trembling as he scrubbed a hand over his face. “...Casca.”

Griffith paled, his heart screeching to a stand still.

Guts’ eyes were full and earnest now, his shoulders hunched. “She told me about Doldrey. That you let the Governor there--” Head angled down and away, his words dropped like stones. Apparently it was so repugnant an act he couldn’t bring himself to talk about it.

_That jealous little witch has always wanted you and now, because she can’t have you, she’s betrayed you to your prize. Betrayed you. BETRAYED--_

Griffith could find neither voice nor breath enough to refute the claim. What was the point? Guts knew as well as he did that Casca was no liar. In all the years they’d stood shoulder to shoulder as comrades he had never before felt anger or resentment toward her until now. She was supposed to be his to command as he pleased, she’d said so herself, and yet this was how she acted when his back was turned? The question burning in his mind was _when_? When had she told Guts this information? 

“I didn’t believe her at first,” Guts continued, startling him. “I didn’t _want_ to believe her. Then she told me why you did it. I knew she was telling the truth after that.” His dark eyes were averted, his posture showing his discomfort. His teeth clenched suddenly, and a microburst of aggression flashed over his face. “God, I don’t know how you could let someone like him--!” His hand squeezed into a fist as he cut himself off with a penitent breath. After some moments he turned back. “I'm sorry, Griffith. I know it was for the good of the Hawks, but even knowing the reason, I still hate it.”

_But does he hate you, I wonder? His eyes whisper things his heart won’t let him say. We ought to pluck them out. Blind he'd have no choice but to depend on you._

As Griffith’s anger deflated to despondency and grief his gaze drifted, forlorn and unfocused.  “How long have you known?”

He felt Guts crawl onto the edge of the bed, but couldn’t bring himself to look that way.

“About a year.”

“Oh... I see…” Hearing a confirmed timeline explained so much. How awkward Guts had grown around him when their clothes were removed, his reluctance to be entirely alone with him, the perplexed glances out the corner of his eye. It all made perfect sense. And this was all because of--

_Her._

They were both silent for an uncomfortable amount of time. Guts kept shifting and fidgeting. Griffith stared at nothing until his eyes burned so badly he had to force himself to blink.

Guts let out a small breath. “Griffith...I gotta know something.”

Griffith closed his eyes and exhaled a long breath through his nose. Finally he gave a permissive nod.

“When the Governor put his--when he did that to you...did you...enjoy it?”

Griffith flinched. He was afraid to acknowledge the question, let alone answer it. After a few sobering breaths though he gave in; Guts had known all along, had even kissed him back the night before, knowing what he’d done. Perhaps the most convincing fact of all was that he was sitting beside him now. Denying it wasn’t going to do him any good.

He held himself as best he could with one arm and stared blankly at the duvet, shuddering in disgust. “I’ve never hated anything more in my life.”

To Griffith's surprise, Guts gave a relieved sigh. “I guess I owe you an apology then.”

Despite his curiosity being piqued by this, Griffith was still distant in his reply. “What for?”

Guts crossed his arms and cast his eyes down self-consciously, “For thinking you’re a--well, _you know_...”

Griffith began to drift back. "My friend, I’m afraid I don’t--”

“You didn’t like it,” Guts explained.

I took a moment of consideration on Griffith’s part before it dawned on him what Guts meant. This more than anything else that had been said so far, was able to rouse him back to his articulate faculties. He laughed so suddenly, so loudly, that Guts jumped.

“Is that what you truly believe determines whether or not someone is a homosexual?”

“Uh…” Guts raised a brow at him as though unable to believe Griffith didn’t know something that was common knowledge. When Griffith didn’t relent, continuing to stare him down for a response, he glanced side to side uncomfortably. “Doesn’t _everybody_ believe that?”

Griffith leveled him with a flat look. “Whether people believe it or not, enjoying sex with another man isn’t what makes you a homosexual.”

Guts scratched his jaw anxiously. “What do you mean?”

Griffith struggled to find the right words. It was a difficult thing that even he didn’t fully understand so how was he to explain it to someone with limited education and world experience? He inhaled and began slowly, carefully making eye contact with him to get the thrust of his words through.

“If someone enjoys sex with another man it doesn’t inherently mean they _dislike_ sex with women.” He back peddled a bit, curled finger to his chin as he considered it. “Well, I suppose in _some_ cases it does. After all there are lords at court who don’t enjoy women, who’ve only taken wives for the purposes of fulfilling familial obligations.”

Guts made a face like he was running through a mental checklist. “Like who?”

Griffith cast his eyes up with a thoughtful smile. “None you’d know by name. There are other men at court who _do_ enjoy women, who also happen to enjoy men. It’s not as black and white as the common people believe. For nobility, acquiring pleasure is like acquiring currency--a bit like the dice game you enjoy. There are rules of course, but if you play correctly, or cheat convincingly enough to get around them, you can amass quite a fortune.”

Griffith knew this all too well. A knight though he was on the battlefield, in darkened corridors and secluded bedrooms he became a willing pawn--to men and women both--in exchange for favors, information, money. He took what he could get, regardless of personal cost to his own body or mental wellbeing.

Guts’ confused look was starting to grow and Griffith sighed heavily. “Clandestine liaisons between men are fairly common at court,” he explained more simply, unable to keep his irritation from peppering his voice. “Old men buggering squires half their age while their wives play bridge together two rooms away, it’s--” He shrugged, one palm raised, “--I don’t really know how else to explain it. Just understand that pleasure for pleasure’s sake doesn’t define who you are.”

Guts just sat there, mouth open, eyes wide as he processed.

Finally he asked the question Griffith had been dreading.

“How do you know all of this?”

Griffith felt a shift within himself that had the magnitude of a landslide. Something that had been pushing and clawing at a locked door for years, trying to escape, had finally broken free. He felt as relieved as he did terrified and gave Guts an imploring look that, for once, hid nothing. It was his true face, jaded and tired, weighed down by all the terrible things he knew, but wished he didn’t. His eyes carried the bitter sadness in his heart. In that moment it yearned above all else for someone-- _anyone_ \--to know what it had been through, how much it hurt.

Guts was visibly overwhelmed by the emotions and leaned back. His face was blank at first but Griffith watched a mixture of anger, horror and sympathy bloom across it. 

“You've been--” Guts looked away, choking on the shame of his own naivete. His voice took on an angry tremor, “Doldrey wasn't the only time this happened...was it?” It was a statement, not a question.

Griffith felt the press of years like anvils on his shoulders. They were nothing compared to the weight in Gut’s questioning eyes. He angled his chin, looking down and it was confirmation enough.

“How many times? Four? Five?”

Griffith avoided his gaze.

“...Ten?..Fifteen?”

His shoulders sank even lower and he shielded his averted gaze with his hand.

“More than--God, Griffith, how many men have you bent and spread for like a goddamn--!”

Guts jerked when Griffith slammed his fist into the headboard. “As many as it takes to keep my men armed and fed, you ungrateful--!” He lowered his head, fire igniting the blue sky of his eyes like dawn before a storm. “I dare say you’ve never complained about your meals or lodging,” He scathed, “And _now_ you know the reason why!” Griffith was at his wits end, seething with self-loathing and anger. His words wavered, tip toeing on the verge of tears. “Now are we through with this conversation, or are there yet more wounds of mine you wish to scrape open and dig around in?” He turned away so swiftly that strands of his hair swirled in the air around his face. The burning sting of tears threatened as he pressed his forehead to his palm and shook.  

Guts flew off the bed and stomped toward the door, growling in frustration through clenched teeth. The door slammed behind him and in the distance a maid shrieked. Griffith flinched violently.

_You’re as much a whore as your mother was and now he knows. He really must hate--_

“Just _shut up!_ ” Griffith screamed at her. “ _Shut up! Shut UP!”_

His body went numb from vibrating with rage and regret. Every man who’d ever fucked him looped before his eyes in harsh, disturbing flashes. Lewd acts he’d been a part of and his own pain tormented him cyclically for what felt like an eternity before he finally sank into a depressive stupor that all but consumed him.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This music video couldn't capture these last few sections of the story better. It's been a constant source of inspiration, I've had in on repeat in my fic playlist for weeks. Watch it and you'll see why.
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JF8BRvqGCNs


	12. Flame

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a beast folks. Three weeks of chapters in one week. It just about killed me to get this out so please don't get used to the length, but do pat yourselves on the back. You really deserve this one ;)
> 
> That being said I will be taking a breather week from the story to write a final paper for my uni class. Unless there's a miracle like last time next chapter will be April 5th.

Guts was a storm blowing through the fort. He grabbed clothing from the room assigned to him, the room he would not be using if he was to keep Griffith protected to his own satisfaction. His stomach filled with jagged shards of rage and guilt and jealousy. The thought of Griffith doing those kinds of things with other men--and for _money_ no less--was running on repeat in his mind. He could see his commander, his best friend, spread lewdly on a bed of shadows, hands looming out of the dark to grab at his limbs, caress his flawless white skin, stroke his hair. How could he willingly let filthy noblemen do such things to him? Press their wrinkled old bodies against him and shove their way inside like rutting beasts? Conflict filled his heart at the thought. His masculine desire held no qualms about letting him know how much he’d enjoy taking the place of those men and yet how could he? Such a thing had been done to him when he was only a child and the memory still haunted him. No matter how many years passed Guts knew he’d never forget the pain or fear. He cringed at his own inability to resist the thought. Remembering his drunken state the night before didn’t help.

He’d found Griffith lying on the stones near the dying fire, completely passed out. He’d put him to bed and had stopped the room from spinning by laying down beside him. On his back, illuminated by the firelight across the room Griffith had looked like an angel descended from heaven, glowing faintly with purpose and warmth. His chest rose and fell softly, his nipples peaking the toned swell of his pectorals like dusky gems. He looked so ephemeral Guts had to reached out to make sure he was real. His hand had swept with soft hesitance over his chest first, then down his abdomen and over the gentle trail of hair that started just above his groin. And lower still. Even flaccid his cock had been indescribably soft. His fingers had glided over it like a feather over silk. His own body had responded like a dog straining at the end of a taut chain and that had snapped him out of it. He'd jerked, promptly rolling over, his face red as hot coals, guts twisting and knotting around his shame.

His conflicting emotions and confusion over this had been amplified by rage and disgust when Griffith had revealed his secrets. It was still doing so now. As he made his way to the stables the only thing clenched harder than his teeth were his fists.

“Ungrateful…” He muttered as his boots splashed down the muddy path. “If I’d known that’s what you were doing I never would have let you out of my sight. Damned fool...”

Whiskey blew and nickered at him excitedly as he approached down the long row of stalls and Guts was forced to switch gears. He was still angry, still processing what he’d been told as he worked the large gelding in the cool morning air. The sun wasn’t strong enough yet to burn off the damp of the previous evening's storm, but that would change once it rose higher into the sky. The blistering summer heat was already there, threatening his skin from behind the gentle touch of the morning sun. By the time he finished putting his horse through his paces, Guts had reached a state of equilibrium. His feelings were still in a tumultuous state, but at the very least, he wasn't grinding his teeth anymore.

Once Whiskey was curried and settled back with Buck, Guts stepped out into the late morning sun and closed his eyes. It washed over him, warming the dark cloth of his shirt and trailing through his hair like the comforting fingers from his dream earlier that morning. The clang of a blacksmith’s hammer, cart wheels rolling over stones, and the teasing banter of children hauling water drifted uninhibited through the crisp air. It reminded him of his first truly amicable encounter with Griffith and he hummed as the memory swept over him in a warm nostalgic wave. Stark naked and grinning like an idiot Griffith had asked Guts to bathe with him at that well-side with such exuberant nonchalance that it had caught him completely off guard; even more so than the bucket of icy cold water and cascade of bubbling laughter that followed. Guts had tossed the first bucket back at Griffith’s pretty, smirking, face entirely out of spite, but Griffith’s dynamism and good cheer were infectious. They permeated Guts' sullen shell and before he even knew what was happening he was laughing and running, throwing water and enjoying the sort of innocent fun he’d always denounced as being pointless. The kind of joy he’d been denied as a child. Guts smiled fondly, thinking about that day. It seemed so long ago now, but in truth it had been only a few years before. Griffith had won him over that day both as a devoted soldier and as a true friend. Their unique bond had seen them through a great deal in three years: excitement, suffering, victory and death. They’d shared lifetimes in those few short years.

Feelings of sadness and regret settled over Guts as he turned toward Lammergeier's stable.

Guts was thoroughly surprised when the large horse actually seemed glad to see him. His ears pricked around and he even went so far as to stretch out his neck to be scratched; a first in Guts’ experience with him. The stallion was usually quite aloof within the confines of the gelded herd he reigned over. The horse nudged at his chest and Guts rolled his eyes as he scratched him under his lengthy white forelock. 

“Really?” He scoffed, “You spend one night alone and suddenly you're mister friendly? What a big sissy.”

He immediately felt a shift in their dynamic and Guts knew he wouldn't have the same issues with him today as he'd run into the day before. This confidence aided his decision to leave the training paddock once he had him saddled and out of the barn. Guts told himself it was only to get the large horse out to a tract of open ground so he could really let him loose, but this was only masking a desire to be out of view of the Keep; out of view of Griffith's window.

The sun shone bright and high as Guts rapidly covered the span of the ancient battlefield below the hill on which Charcy had been built. Lammergeier was performing flawlessly on the mossy ground, not a single hitch in his stride. Even with a positive mindset and a perfect morning laid out ahead of him, Guts thoughts were still sinking in a festering bog. Old hurts and fears clawed at his peaceful state and he was once again reminded of why he was out on an extended ride in the first place. Gradually he leaned back, sitting deeper in the saddle and slowing the stallion down through each stride until he was finally back at a walk. Guts had seen Griffith dead-stop him into 180 degree turns on the field faster than he could have kicked his own horse up to a gallop, but his life wasn’t in danger here and stopping on the edge of a coin wasn’t good for a horse's knees.

“There you go big guy. Nice and easy. You blow out a joint and Griffith’ll kill me.”

His voice started out lighthearted, but lost steam as he realized just how easily and comfortably Griffith slipped into his thoughts. His mouth and eyes sank with his shoulders. His heart panged dolefully in his chest and he stared at his hands. He missed Griffith, what they used to have before things got all muddied with emotions. Things could never be that way again. Not now.

Guts lived his life with a fault line between him and everyone else. It would open from time to time, creating a chasm of doubts and insecurities that separated him from everyone else. Everyone except Griffith. He was the only person who walked on Guts’ side of the fault and no matter how big the chasm got, he was always there beside him. Now it felt like that relationship had crumbled and it was all because of the weak will of men. And he was no better.

He snarled under his breath, squeezing the doubled leather reins between his fingers until they creaked. He needed Griffith beside him so badly, in so many ways. His teeth clenched and he shook his head, trying to erase the recurrent image of Griffith glowing like a beacon of light amongst a black sea of gnarled, grasping fingers. Those men. Those horrible pieces of human waste who’d sullied him, debased his purity, knocked him from the pedestal of grace and refinement Guts had always held him upon; the men who'd made him a whore.

The screech of a falcon overhead made Lammergeier snort and shift. Guts looked up without thinking to try and identify it, mind leaping to try and answer the question Griffith would have no doubt asked him had he been there. It was too high up for him to tell visually, but it sounded like a peregrine. The bird flew freely through the air as though it took no effort at all. Guts’ eyes opened a bit wider. Griffith was much like that falcon, he realized. Nobody Guts knew lived life with as much determination and freedom. Everything he did worked out in his favor no matter how impossible the goal seemed to others. The symbol of their band was well chosen indeed.

In an exercise he seldom made use of, Guts tried to put himself in Griffith’s shoes, to try and reason through what he’d done. As he was presented with the opportunity to take coin and favors in exchange for his body, at first he was revolted, but he squeezed his eyes shut and really tried to think about it analytically, as Griffith no doubt had done. A night in some clammy-skinned noble’s bed in exchange for enough coin to feed and outfit a thousand men was certainly the least bloody route to wealth. When he compared it to the number of contracts the Hawks would have had to take, the number of men’s lives that would have needed to be sacrificed in battle to gather the same funds, the logical answer became clear as the blue sky above him. Griffith had put his body on the line, willingly sacrificed himself to spare his men losing life and limb fighting for his dream.

And _he_ had condemned him for it. Guts wasn’t sure how, but he would make up for his ignorance. He would show Griffith how sorry he was. How much he loved him.

He froze in place, his heartbeat suddenly deafening.

Love?

Was that really…Did he…?

No, surely not. He glanced around and swallowed the lump in his throat. In the empty expanse of field he felt small. Insignificant. _Trivial_. The constant confusion, the veiled jealousy and bitter contempt he felt whenever he watched noble women paw at Griffith flooded his heart with potential new meaning and he struggled to dam it up. His mind was unrelenting though; myriad fractious moments, glances, and thoughts assaulted his ramshackle barrier and he fought with gritted teeth to repel them. The weight in his heart mounted, longing for answers, and he knew this time it was different. He wasn’t going to be able to hold out for much longer and when the dam broke he was terrified to face what came through it alone. He wheeled Lammergeier around with a sudden sense of urgency. Startled, the grazing stallion tossed his neck up in a high arch, snorting and pawing. Guts nudged him behind the girth and the horse responded as he had been trained to do, trusting his rider absolutely and taking off toward Charcy without a moment's hesitation.

 _____

 

The first time the door opened after Guts left, a maid had come in asking Griffith if he wanted breakfast or pain medicine. He’d told her no to the food and yes to the medicine. The second time it opened a scullery maid came in to stoke the fires and remove the old ashes. He didn’t even look up. He was unsure how much time had passed, though the slant of the light from the window told him it was early afternoon. When the door opened a third time he didn’t bat an eye. Heavy feet moving with decided purpose came towards him. Boots hit the ground followed by a rustle of leather and fabric. Then the bed shifted as someone heavy settled on it.

“So that’s where you ran off to?” Griffith asked coldly. “You smell like a barn.”

Guts’ strong arms wrapped tightly around his shoulders, startling him so thoroughly he couldn’t move for a second. On a good day, Griffith knew he could best Guts at hand to hand combat in nearly every scenario, but this was not a good day. Guts’ bare tanned skin radiated warmth like sun-soaked wheat against his cheek, and Griffith found he had neither the strength nor desire to continue their earlier argument.

“Guts what are you--”

“You do your best for us, Griffith. You always have. I’m sorry I questioned that. I’m sorry I...”

“Implied I'm a whore?”

Guts went still then held him a little tighter.

He let out the barest of self-deprecating laughs. “By the purest definition, I suppose I am.”

“Don’t,” Guts hushed. There was a long pause. “Let me do this right.”

Griffith didn’t know what ‘this’ was, and Guts made it abundantly clear he didn’t either as he clumsily adjusted their bodies like a child with an oversized doll. Guts breathed a heavy sigh of relief once Griffith was situated between his raised knees, head tucked protectively beneath his chin. Griffith was frozen, long lashes fluttering, as his world slowed to a crawl. Only their hearts, thudding loudly in unison, seemed to be moving in real time. His body tingled everywhere, his neurons firing as he tried to calculate outcomes, struggled to plan, to plot. He could see nothing. Do nothing. Guts was a blank spot on his map of predictable human reactions; an enigma. He felt as helpless as he did entranced by the fear of the unknown.  

_Can you feel him? Listen to his heart. You have made it beat so, Dear One. He wants you. Craves you. It is time._

Griffith could hardly breathe, and it was not for lack of air. Was this really happening?

Guts held him, his deep breathing gently rocking them back and forth. “I’m such an idiot,” he lamented softly.

"Yes, you are, but--"

The hesitant press of lips on the top of Griffith's head wrung a trembling gasp from his chest and sent a jolt of lightning coursing up his spine. He was filled with so many different emotions his heart stuttered until he was lightheaded. Desperately he wanted to whirl around in Guts’ arms, press him into the bed, take more than just a kiss. Instead he sat there, skin vibrating, as he tried to preserve the feeling of being cared for by someone he actually wanted the attention from, just in case he never experienced it again.

Warmth originating in Griffith’s lower extremities blossomed out over the rest of his body in soft, pulsating waves, remembering the night before as Guts rocked him. He lost himself in it, shutting his eyes. He dared to hope this would last, prayed to whatever god that watched over him that Guts would stay. With a shaking breath he called out to him.

“Guts…”

His friend froze, then began to feel farther and farther away. Panic gripped him out of the dark depths of his self-loathing.

_He’s going to leave again. Going to leave you. Do something. Anything. You'll be alone. Always al--_

Sweat broke subtly over Griffith’s skin and he drew in a shallow breath. “Is something wrong?” He probed softly.

Guts leaned forward, retightening his hold and Griffith exhaled, relief flooding through him. Guts didn’t seem to notice the moment of panic he’d induced for which Griffith was grateful.

“I don’t know...” He buried his face in Griffith’s hair, inhaling deeply and gifting his neck with a warm groan of indulgence.

Griffith’s body went rigid and he had to stifle a gasp as his cock twitched with need. How could Guts be so enticing and yet so oblivious to the effect he had on him? He fought the urge to turn and wrap his hand around Guts’ neck, to pin him down and press against him with his burgeoning erection. He would _make him_ understand. _Make him_ take ownership. His pupils narrowed to pin holes and the room faded at the edges. His muscles actually twitched with the beginnings of movement, but Guts nuzzled the side of his neck and it guided him back to his sensibilities. He trembled, clenching and unclenching his hand as he swallowed hard, unwilling to accept what he’d almost done.

The Voice snarled, thwarted and angry, and Griffith realized the comfort he’d taken from it--her--the night before must have bound them closer, somehow. She--it--was more powerful, more vivid, than ever before. It was frightening, to say the very least.

Blissfully unaware of what had almost happened, Guts clung to him, pressing his face to the nape of his neck and muttering incomprehensibly. Griffith used the heavy, comforting weight of his body to ground himself, to push out the fear and the anxiety. Guts made an awkward noise and shifted a bit.

Griffith hummed at him. It was both reassuring and gently inquisitive.

Guts' chest expanded fully, sounding like he was gathering courage, then rapidly exhaled. His breath was so warm on Griffith’s neck it made his entire body tingle. He wanted to feel that heat other places.

“I don’t...understand this. I’ve tried. I really have.”

“Must every question have an answer?” Griffith posited.

“No, but this..." He paused, sighing heavily. "I need to understand this. ” He went oddly still for a very long time. His next words came out in a soft tremor, as though it were costing him a great deal to say them aloud. “It’s not natural to feel this way for…for a…” He couldn’t finish it, his voice rapidly losing power.

“...another man?” Griffith offered gravely, his own unhealthy internalized disgust with the idea tinting his words. He couldn’t help it. Such cultural prejudices and fears ran deep, even in someone like himself who largely functioned outside the ordinary bounds of convention. “I understand the scruples you face entirely too well, believe me.”

Guts lamented his confusion, his words heavy with shame. “I shouldn’t feel this way about you!”

Griffith held his breath like the world was ending.

At long last Guts whispered, “But...I do. God, Griffith I do.” His admission came out like he were some criminal on his way to the gallows, repenting his sins to a priest .

Griffith was overcome with joy and relief, but his need to express it took a rear seat when Guts buried his face in his neck. He held him so tightly it hurt, but Griffith said nothing. When scorching tears hit his skin Griffith closed his eyes, making gentle soothing sounds to comfort him. He kept his breathing slow and steady, trying his hardest to be the calming anchor Guts needed him to be. “It’s alright," he uttered softly. These were difficult feelings for someone like him, someone already accustomed to stringent self analysis, let alone for a man like Guts, who most likely didn't do a lot of deep emotional processing. Griffith heavily suspected that a lot of Guts' power on the battlefield came from painful things he’d buried finding an outlet through his sword arm. He didn’t know why this thought hurt him as badly as it did and he winced sympathetically, putting a comforting hand on Guts’ arm. Guts flinched and Griffith drew his hand back swiftly and contritely.

“My apologies.”

Guts made an apologetic, yearning sound and moved Griffith’s hand back to his arm, holding it there pressed beneath his own. “No, it’s okay.” He drew in deep, shaking breaths. “Please…” There was something so vulnerable and uncertain in his voice, yet the desire straining the long solid line of his body was undeniable. He stifled a confused moan against Griffith's neck and Griffith held very still. Had such a simple touch--?

He gasped at the subtle yet unmistakable confirmation of Guts' arousal as he rubbed gently against his lower back. Griffith's heart raced like a courser flying down the battlefield. The voice laughed, startling him.

 _Careful, Dear One. Your heart is so fragile it just might explode. What would he do then? Poor little mercenary, left all alone, just as he was before you made him yours with the tip of your sword. You pressed it in so firmly, sank it so deeply inside him. Do you remember how that felt?_ Griffith shook his head, gritting his teeth and trying his damnedest not to let the fire of his arousal be fueled by something _She_ said.

Guts stopped abruptly. "Sorry," he said, rubbing his neck. 

Griffith wasn't certain what had made him stop. He turned to look over his shoulder and the nervous tension in Guts' expression made him long to comfort him. "Don't be." He offered an alluring sidelong glance and when Guts looked up, he smiled at him, a dusting of red on the tips of his ears, the apples of his pale cheeks. "I was actually...enjoying it."

Guts’ eyes darted away and Griffith carefully shifted to face him, even going so far as to place his arm loosely over his shoulder. Guts let him without complaint, though he kept his focus anywhere but on Griffith's face. They were so close his long fringe of bangs brushed lightly against Guts’ nose. He could feel the play of Guts’ breath over his lips and leaned in. "Is this alright?"

Guts shifted bashfully, trying to put space between them, but Griffith held steady. “Griffith…” Guts shut his eyes as their foreheads came together. His body gradually loosened up as he indulged in the profound gentleness of Griffith's touch.

Overcome by an up-welling of possessive affection Griffith clenched his jaw to stifle it, his heart pounding. “You’re very..." his words trailed fruitlessly and he let slip a rare sigh of frustration. Words were seldom his enemy. Putting a hand to Guts' cheek, he started again. "Guts, you are so very... important to me." His verbiage remained a bit stilted and unsure, but he was pleased nonetheless. He'd never confessed real feelings of love to anyone before, his only "practice" coming from regurgitating the same sweet noncommittal trash he knew his patrons liked to hear. “You seldom leave my thoughts.” This, thankfully, came easier than all the rest combined.

Griffith’s eyes focused intensely on him as he reached out and took hold of Guts' lowered chin. Guts flinched again at the unexpected touch, his conflicting desires to lean into it and move away from it visible in the tension of his body. Every beautiful bronze swell of muscle in his arms and shoulders shook with it. Griffith’s brows drew inward. He yearned to do more, but was terrified to once again have his advances rejected. To scare him away.

Timidly, Guts' thick lashes raised like stage curtains. He looked through them, a tumultuous battle of desire and fragile uncertainty staged in his deep brown eyes--a look Griffith had crafted artificially for other men more times than he could count. His lower body twitched and warmed with the press of need and for the first time he truly grasped the effect he had on men. A grin toyed with one corner of his lips as the thought gave him a dark confusing rush of shame and pride.

He brushed at the wet rim of Guts' eye, clearing the last of tears earlier spent. His words came softly--almost whispers--yet so densely packed with raw intensity they rivaled a scream. “Are you afraid?” 

Guts answered with a quick burst of confidence, closing the short gap between their lips.

Enticed beyond baring Griffith indulged, moaning into the unexpected kiss. Sparks flew through him as he drank from his mouth like a man dying of thirst. Guts didn't respond as eagerly, most likely due to inexperience, but what he lacked in participation he more than made up for by going pliant in Griffith’s hands like a stalk of spring wheat.

A shaking breath of anticipation shuddered from Griffith's lips as he shifted his injured leg to straddle Guts' thigh. It hurt, but the tea he’d drank earlier contributed a great deal towards numbing the pain. His groin was exposed now, pressed firmly against Guts body. Still, Guts remained. His failure to bolt was a good sign and Griffith took it as a tentative sign to push things a bit further. He smiled at him, tried to make him see how much he meant to him. He pressed his palm over Guts’ broad chest; over his heart, then gently let his fingers brush over his nipple. Guts swallowed hard, his chin coming down bashfully with an unsure gasp.

Griffith honed in on this reaction like a wolf on an injured deer. He pressed his mouth to Guts’ ear. “Tell me how it feels,” he demanded.

Guts groaned in refusal, blushing so much Griffith felt the heat on his face. Griffith drew back. Cool as a winter sky his eyes fixed on him. He moved his fingers again over the tightening bud of flesh and, again, Guts gasped. “l--I can't!”

Griffith pinched it between two fingers and plucked at the peak with a third like a violin string. "Tell me.”

“Good!" Guts blurted, his voice wavering as his eyes dipped. "It...feels good.” 

Griffith praised his effort, stroking his hair. “You see? Nothing to be ashamed of." He hesitated, but only a moment. "May I...try something else?”

He cast a long line down Guts' body with his eyes, smiling as his face lit with gentle questioning.

Guts’ look intensified, his eyes wide and hesitant, longing to understand beyond his realm of knowledge. It was the same look he got when he took his reading lessons and encountered a particularly hard word.

Shutting his eyes, Guts grew bright red. “Don't ask me, just do it.”

Griffith raised a brow and pinched Guts’ nipple again. “Really? Are you sure?”

Guts' pleased sigh turned quickly to a growl of frustration. “S-stop it.”

Griffith pushed in closer, wincing a little as his foot caught oddly on the duvet and jostled his ankle. “Stop what?”

“Teasing me. Asking me to make decisions. I don't know what I'm doing here alright?”

Griffith nodded, a knowing expression flashing over his fine features. “I only ask because I don't want to do something that makes you uncomfortable. But...also…”

He sat back, eyes distant and forlorn, and it was Guts’ turn to be concerned. He pressed a hand gently to Griffith's cheek that matched the consolation in his voice. “What is it?”

Griffith's carefree composure returned, but only just. “Though you might not believe it, this is new for me as well.”

“But you’ve been with other men before.”

“Not like this." His eyes iced over. "Never like this.”

As Guts considered this he once again looked away, then, thoughtfully, said, “Hey...you're used to ordering me around, right?”

Griffith nodded.

“So just tell me what you're gonna do then bloody do it.” His cocky grin returned to his face and he flashed him a smile. “I'm yours, remember?”

Griffith did remember. Since he'd claimed him at the base of that hill he’d never forgotten. Like the fleet-winged birds of prey from which he took his now infamous moniker, Griffith dove down and captured Guts’ mouth with his.

Guts responded to this kiss the way a man should. An indulgent grunt of pleasure filled Griffith’s mouth and Guts' hand fisted in the hair at the back of his head. Griffith couldn’t help struggling, and this only served to further Guts' resolve. In a smooth movement he flipped him onto his back, his legs bent in the air. Guts' shifted down, his broad shoulders parting Griffith's thighs.

Griffith gazed at him down the taut line of his body, eyes wide like a stunned prey animal. He hadn’t been expecting such a bold maneuver and it drove something deeply rooted and hopelessly lewd to the surface of his expression. Guts eyes were dark; desirous.

Griffith’s hand came to rest on Guts' head as he eyed his mouth with unveiled delight. His cock twitched anxiously, touching Guts' chin and they both gasped--for vastly different reasons. Griffith's eyes rolled behind closed lids, his lips parting as he drew his lower lip between his teeth. Unfortunately his dreams of watching his cock disappear between Guts' thick, gorgeous, lips were short lived. The contact, however brief, had pushed Guts off whatever confident platform he’d been operating from and back to the bashfulness of reality. “Th-this was a mistake," he sputtered, moving to sit up. "I--I can't. I'm sorry I don't think I'm cut out for this.”

Griffith's fear of abandonment surged. Trying to conceal his anxiety, he stroked Guts' cheek a few times with his thumb. "No, no! Perish the thought, you did rather well for your first attempt. No apology necessary, my friend."

Guts balked at the praise, but, to Griffith's everlasting relief, he stayed right were he was.

More calmly, Griffith explained. "I want you to enjoy this and actions carried out under the yolk of obligation are seldom the most pleasant. Try if you can, to approach sex with the same mindset as you would swordplay."

Guts' attention focused considerably at the mention of swords, though he was clearly baffled. "What? Why?"

Griffith looked up thoughtfully a moment, trying to phrase his analogy so Guts would fully understand. "A swordsman's skill is often perceived as a singular ability, when in reality he is performing countless individual skills in complex sequence, nothing more. One only needs to watch a beginner muddy his footwork or fail a riposte to see that. Do you follow?"

Guts nodded slowly, his brow drawn in fervent contemplation.

"Sexual acts are much the same. There are a great many skills that need mastering before you can..." He cleared his throat stiffly, "'strike with confidence,' so to speak."

Guts' studious expression shifted as he processed the information, a thoughtful hand resting on his chin. "Right. So you're saying I just need...training?" He blushed feverishly.

These words and all their veiled implications sent a shiver of pleasure through Griffith's body. After a brief second to compose himself he nodded. "In every sense, yes." He beckoned Guts up to the head of the bed, eager to continue to their first 'lesson'. "Now, if you'd allow me to show you?"

Guts agreed with an awkward shrug of his shoulder, clearly embarrassed by how much the idea of being 'shown' aroused him. Unfortunately he couldn't hide his straining erection and it made Griffith grin with amusement to see him so flustered yet so aroused. "Come here." He adjusted himself against the pillows and indicated to his chest.  
Guts tongue darted out, nervously dampening his lips as he slowly, bashfully, moved up beside him on the bed. Before throwing his leg over he hesitated. “Are you sure about this? I’ll crush you.”

Griffith scoffed, eyes rolling to the ceiling in a flurry of irritated lashes. “I’ve been killing grown men since I was ten years old, I’m not _nearly_ so delicate. Now kneel.”   
A sense of eerie satisfaction filled him as Guts did exactly as he was told. “Lean forward. Hold the headboard if you need."

"Like this?"

Griffith nodded, thoroughly pleased. "Now angle your hips. Bring them over my--yes perfect, stay just like that.”

Guts' thighs were shaking as Griffith adjusted his own position a little. Looking up, he gave Guts the same lidded gaze of wanton eagerness he’d gifted to so many men before. Then, with deliberate slowness, parted his lips; presenting his open mouth with a sultry upward roll of his eyes.

Guts swallowed. Hard. He didn't need any further instructions as his body and desire took it from there. His hips twitched and he made a few half-hearted attempts to inch inside before finally closing his eyes and just going for it. His muscles clenched, his expression one of shock and pleasure so confounding and new his body couldn't make sense of it. Griffith knew the feeling behind such a look well and, deciding to push the envelope, he twitched his tongue. Guts immediately hunched over the source of his pleasure, a deep moan shaking out of him in ragged bursts. Though Guts’ eyes were shut tight, Griffith never looked away from him, enraptured by the shameful bliss on his face. He bobbed and turned his head slowly from side to side, sucking and tonguing Guts’ cock as best he knew how. It took a few moments of Griffith directing their movements before Guts really picked it up. As his hips found a more confident rhythm his gentle sounds of pleasure were steadily replaced by deep-seated grunts and moans.

_You know how to use your mouth don’t you, Dear One. Like a cheap whore. Your throat is always open, and so well trained. Trained to please men. And you like it don’t you? Great King. Filthy whore._

Determined to give Guts pleasure, Griffith didn’t even bat an eyelash, leaning into the insults in his mind and embracing his ability to wring such masculine sounds from the man above him. They made his own cock throb and twitch as it bobbed stiffly, painfully, between his legs. The hard swell of Guts' ass in his hand tempted him to no end. He wanted more than anything to push Guts back onto his cock, to thrust up and bury himself in that ass like burying his sword in an enemies chest. Fuck him until his emotions were laid bare and he was left raw and screaming obscenities at the heavens, moaning his name.

Guts’ iron grip tightened on the headboard as he leaned heavily into the rhythm, fucking his mouth in earnest now, nothing held back. Griffith opened his throat as much as he could, but Guts was as massive as he’d expected him to be and he gagged, barely able to breathe. Guts didn’t seem to hear him, lost in his repetitive roll of sharp grunts and drawn out moans. The wood of the bed creaked and complained louder and louder, as Griffith’s panic grew. He almost had to push him off so he could take a breath, but then--

“G-griff--ith! I--!"

Guts tried to pull his jerking hips away as his body tightened with his release, but he only half managed it. He climaxed with a strained grunt of pleasure, his semen shooting in several twitching bursts; some of it in Griffith’s mouth, the rest on his face and chest.

He sank down from his knees, his full weight on Griffith’s torso. Panting and trembling his facial expressions slowly spiraled from pleasure, to guilt, to contentment until at last he opened his eyes. Griffith’s eyes were there, waiting. When they locked together, he swallowed with exaggeration, then let his lips--still spotted with semen--fall open, revealing his now empty mouth.

“God you're good at--Ah fuck, sorry. Here I’ll--” Guts wiped what was left of his seed away from Griffith’s face and chest with his hand. He looked around awkwardly for somewhere to wipe it, but Griffith had other ideas. He grasped Guts’ wrist, drawing his attention, then locked eyes with him as he brought his hand to his mouth and slowly licked it clean.

Guts watched, stunned. As he swallowed thickly, his fading cock started to perk.

_Yes, Dear One. He enjoys your show. He’s eager. Needs more. See it in his eyes. Take him. Take him now. TAKE--_

“Open that drawer,” Griffith ordered, voice heavy with lust. He pointed to the nearest bedside table with his chin. “Give me what you find.”

Guts did so and sloshed the green-tinted bottle in front of his face, examining the viscous liquid inside for a moment, before handing it to him.

“What is that?”

“Oil,” Griffith explained, uncorking it with his teeth. The General had left it behind when he’d come to take his pleasure and Griffith had tucked it into the bedside drawer for safe keeping.

From the look on Guts' face he knew what it was used for.

"Why do you have that in there?"

Griffith gave him a knowing look and Guts blushed heavily, even more so than he had when Griffith had licked the semen from his hand. Griffith eyed him wantonly, doing nothing to hide how much his bashfulness aroused him. His lashes were heavy and now perpetually lidded, his desire so palpable he was starting to lose himself in it.

“I want you,” Griffith said simply, pouring some of the fluid onto his hand. Soon he was stroking it over Guts' hardening cock, making him jerk from the sensitivity. His hips rolled up and his back hunched forward. Griffith didn’t let go, instead he took advantage of their new proximity and parted his lips. He gave Guts’ mouth a demanding look and Guts moved in slowly, eyes heavy.

“Shit…”

They kissed deeply, rhythmically, as Griffith stroked the oil over him, fed on the tiny moans Guts let into his mouth. When Guts finally pulled away for a deeper breath, Griffith took hold of his hand, uncorked the bottle once more and poured oil onto his large, calloused palm.

He gave Griffith a puzzled look.

“For mine,” Griffith explained softly. “I can’t reach with you there.”

“Oh, r-right.” Like a good dog, Guts did as he’d been told and grasped Griffith’s cock in his massive lubricated hand.

“ _Ohh--!”_

Griffith’s head snapped back as Guts worked him. At this, he seemed quite skilled, something for which Griffith was grateful. His exposed throat must have provided a tantalizing target, as Guts’ mouth found it within moments. Griffith was beside himself, his hips bucking into the warm, oiled grip of Guts' hand, his body writhing as his dear prize sucked and bit and tongued the side of his neck.

“Give me your body,” Griffith moaned, words shaking like leaves in the gale of his arousal. “Give it all to me." He kissed him again, this time with reckless abandon. "I want to make love to you. God above, Guts please, let me f--”

Guts eased his mouth down, smothering Griffith’s rambling and saving him from spewing more embarrassing tripe he'd no doubt regret when the hormones died down. After a slow, lingering kiss Guts drew back, their lips a fraction of an inch apart. His eyes were carefully avoidant, tone filled with resolute purpose. “Begging doesn’t suit you so stop it alright? If you want my ass so much you can have it. At least you’re asking first, not just...taking."

His gaze and words drifted off for a long while, and when they connected again, the hurt was so distinct, so heavy in his eyes, that Griffith didn’t even need to ask what had happened. He knew those eyes well. He’d seen them before. In the faces of countless women and children in war-ravaged villages, in the eyes of brothel workers he’d interrogated, and perhaps most frequently of all, reflected back at him in bathing pools and silver mirrors. A sense of something locking into place, of a door opening and filling him with greater understanding took over. Guts’ avoidant behavior, aggression toward his advances and refusal to give in to what he clearly wanted all made sense now.

Griffith put a consoling hand on his cheek, brows drawing in sympathetically. “You’ve been used for-- I didn’t know. I should have seen it sooner. Guts, I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Guts kissed him again then pressed their heads together. “I’m not the only one and I don’t want your pity. You wouldn’t want mine.”

That much was true, Griffith reasoned as Guts sat up. He moved back, shifting with his knees clumsily, his face burning red. He lifted his hips over Griffith’s groin and gave him a look that was both warm and cocky, a look so distinctly his own that Griffith’s heart ached. He could look at that face forever and never get enough.

“It’s in the past and I’d rather it stay there. Cover it with better memories. Now let’s do this. My sword or my ass, whatever you want, remember?”

Griffith smiled up at him coyly. "I've already claimed your sword, haven't I? That wouldn't be just at all; taking two prizes for one measly victory."

"You won the fight we had before that one fair and square, so don't feel too bad."

Griffith knew Guts was patronizing him on purpose and leveled him with a heavy browed smirk. "You were exhausted and I stabbed you from horse-back. _H_ _ardly_ a fair fight." 

Guts looked away, blush heavily setting in on his cheeks. Griffith's eyes narrowed. "You don't have to reason with me or yourself, Guts." He stroked his thigh and felt him shudder. "It's okay to want it."

When their eyes met again, something deeply masculine and sensual fell over Guts' face: a primal challenge that made Griffith’s cock twitch.

Guts lowered his hips and Griffith bit his lower lip with a heady sigh of anticipation. This was it. It was actually happening. Guts wriggled and shifted, hissing and gritting his teeth as he guided his cock to his ass with shaking fingers. Slowly, so impossibly slowly Griffith watched his cock inch its way inside.

“That’s it,” Griffith gasped with encouragement, his pleasure centers firing so quickly he worried they might burn out. There was a resistance inside that he had not experienced before from this side of the equation, but he held still to let Guts navigate it. He knew it was the last hurdle before the pain would ease and they’d be able to really proceed. He also knew how painful it could be. Luckily, he wasn’t nearly so well endowed as Guts was.

“Slowly. Don’t move so-- _Nnn--!”_

The resistance yielded suddenly and Griffith slid the rest of the way inside to a mixture of pained and relieved moans.

Griffith stroked Guts’ hip, then moved to his well-oiled cock, which had already started to swell back to full size. He’d personally never managed to feel much pleasure from being violated by other men, and the look of surprised pleasure as he started to wriggle back and forth, moving Griffith’s cock inside him, said Guts’ hadn’t either. At least, not before now.

“Is it that good?” Griffith asked, his voice strained from holding back the urge to buck his hips.

Guts' eyes rolled back and he moved a bit more. “Y-yeah...There’s a spot there that-- _Nnn!--Ahh.._.yes there...”

“You were willing to let me violate you despite thinking it would be a miserable experience?”

Guts paused, panting as his body clenched and unclenched out of his control.

“Yes--I-- _Ahhn--”_ He replaced his attempts to talk with head nodding.

Content that he wasn’t going to injure him now, Griffith tapped Guts’ thigh and rolled his hips up as hard as he could. Guts was heavy and he didn’t move as much as he’d hoped, but it was clearly enough.

Startled by the sudden movement, Guts gave a pleasured yelp that quickly devolved to a clipped gasp as he came down again.

“You never fail to amaze me, my friend,” Griffith praised. “I’m never letting you go.”

Guts groaned deeply and started, at last, to raise and lower his hips. Griffith saw stars.

Guts moved slowly at first, then with increased speed as Griffith’s fingernails urgently bit into his thigh. It was more than he could stand. Guts was impossibly tight and swallowed him so perfectly he couldn’t see straight. Compared to penetrating a woman, Guts was heaven, pure and simple. This was what men paid him for and now he understood why.

“You feel so--!” His head jerked back as Guts ground down against him, his hips rocking quickly as he found the rhythm of their pleasure. It was a focused movement, not the long drawn out strokes of fucking a woman, but short, vigorous, almost brutal thrusts downward followed by a grinding, rocking movement.

Griffith couldn’t bear it. His mind was reeling, the voice cooing to him and whispering things that made him want to cry out and recoil with disgust. He was getting close to his peak and wanted Guts to climax too, if he was able. He certainly wouldn’t hold it against him if he didn’t though.

With purposeful strokes he pumped Guts’ cock in his hand, paying special attention to the underside of the head. He seemed to like being stroked there when he’d pleasured him orally.

As it turned out, that was all it took to push him over the edge. One last wild burst of rapid thrusting and grinding from Guts was capped by a deeply satisfied grunt of pleasure as he froze, his cock twitching as he shot his essence up onto his stomach and over Griffith’s chest. It was followed almost in tandem by Griffith’s own painful, desperate cry of release as pleasure engulfed him and he spent himself deep in Guts’ body.

That was it. It had happened. Guts was finally, truly his. The larger man collapsed forward over him on his shaking arms and Griffith looked up at him, smiling with resolve. He put a hand up to his cheek and touched the dewed sweat of exertion, gently drawing him down into a kiss.

They drew apart after what felt like hours under water, both gasping and panting, lips bruised.

Griffith’s eyes deepened and he stared so intently into Guts’ that he felt the other man shiver.

“You’re mine, aren’t you? Tell me you’re mine.”

“I’m yours, Griffith,” Guts sighed with a content smile. “I always have been.” He collapsed over him, hugging him tight, their bodies still partially connected. He kissed his cheek, slow and loving, then brought his mouth to his ear, “I just couldn’t see it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In my group chat this chapter has been known affectionately as The Fuckening: Gay.0


	13. Hare

Guts spent the next few weeks struggling to find a sense of normalcy and purpose within the stifling confines of the fort. At first he’d had the distraction of wrapping his head around the sexual intimacy he and Griffith now shared, but that had proven to be a surprisingly shallow pond. Given the taboo circumstances of it all he’d expected more to change between them, but it really hadn't. It should have felt strange to him, to think about Griffith in that way, but then their friendship had always been one of interdependence and had existed on so many planes at once for so long, what was one more? How he'd managed to remain blind to the true nature of his feelings for so long confused him nearly as much as his feelings for Griffith had in the first place.

With nothing but the anticipation of potential sexual encounters to occupy Guts’ mind, the weeks afterward blended together in a slog of monotony, nervousness and boredom. To avoid eating formally with Griffith and the Heads of House in the dining room Guts woke up early each day and grabbed a meal in the servants kitchen before spending the coolest half of the day working the horses and training with his sword. It was too hot in the afternoons to do much of anything so after their midday meal Griffith would often tutor him in reading and penmanship. When it rained and the room wasn't as warm, they'd sometimes lay down together with a book, Guts using Griffith’s stomach like a pillow so he could read along over Guts’ shoulder and help him when he got stuck. Reading aloud to Griffith had never been Guts’ idea of fun, but now that the uncomfortable veil of sexual tension they’d lived under for so long had dissipated, he found he enjoyed it a lot more. The fact that these in-bed reading lessons tended to result in the book being discarded--along with their clothes--in favor of more intimate endeavors helped motivate him as well.

Their nightly meals were taken in the early evening with the General and his family. The food was always top notch--the salted herring pasties meticulously sculpted to look like the fish inside were Guts’ favorite by far--but the formality made him very uncomfortable. He wasn’t one for small talk and his table etiquette lacked polish and refinement. Used to eating beside a campfire, not an oak dining table, he constantly worried he was embarrassing Griffith, though his friend had given no evidence that that was the case. Guts was a fish out of water in nearly every respect in a formal setting and, to make matters worse, his dinner jacket was wool and itched like hell. The one small mercy was that Griffith tended to dominate their side of the conversation. This left Guts free to focus on his food, thus avoiding making unintentional eye contact with any of the General’s seven daughters. The oldest in particular had been eyeing both Griffith and himself with questionable propriety since they’d arrived and Guts didn’t want to do anything that might encourage her further. Over the course of the past month Guts had gleaned enough information about the surly white-haired General to know it was in his best interest to stay well away from his daughters. Contrary to what Guts had initially believed, General Vorhees had carved the path to his current rank with nothing but a horse and the strength of his sword arm. A marriage arranged by an overzealous Marquess wanting a war hero in his bloodline had brought the General and his wife together and along with her came land, wealth and status. The General was a real salt-of-the-earth sort of man who hadn’t let the coin go to his head too much, at least from what Guts could tell. The splendor and extravagance around their home was definitely the work of his wife.

Lady Vorhees had shown herself to be a true blue noble, born and raised. She practically oozed opulence and excess. Even after bearing twelve children, her form was impeccably well maintained, her skin lily white, her silvery hair style following the latest trends of the ladies of the royal court. Her appearance and the appearance of her home were quite apparently her only real concerns as she didn’t appear to be a particularly loving wife, nor a warm mother; her manner was cold and her words unminced with both her husband and her children.

Guts felt particularly sorry for their youngest child; a pale, sickly looking boy who always picked at his food rather than eating it. He couldn’t have been older than six and really looked like he could benefit from a mother's gentle touch.

Once, the boy had unexpectedly made eye contact with him, smiling, and Guts had broken his eyes away; fixing them, steadfast, to his plate. What the hell did he know about kids anyway.

\-----

 

The Vorhees’ manicured hedge garden sprawled over several acres of land, with gravel paths and sitting alcoves winding around a large central duck pond. Swans and other waterfowl skirted it while still others glided silently across the sunset reflected on its glassy surface. Guts and Griffith sat beside it in one such shaded alcove, taking in the last rays of the sun and enjoying the silence of one another’s company. The spot was halfway around the small lake; secluded and overhung by a weeping willow, it was a wonderful place to take a rest before rounding the other side of the garden and returning to the keep. They’d been resting in this same spot every night for several weeks now, ever since Griffith had insisted on taking some air in the cooler twilight hours of the evening. These post dinner walks were initially slow and short, barely making it a quarter of the way around the pond before they’d have to turn back, but once his sprained wrist had healed, Griffith had been given a second crutch by the fort’s chief medic and was able to move around much easier.

“The royal gardens at Wyndham are ten times this size,” Griffith remarked, his words floating on the warm air with a dreamlike quality.

They’d been sitting in comfortable silence by the pond for so long that Griffith’s comment startled him and Guts blinked in surprise. “What?”

“The royal gardens,” Griffith repeated. “I toured them with Her Royal Highness the Princess Charlotte when last we were in residency at Wyndham castle. They're absolutely enormous. You should have seen them. Exotic animals caged around every corner.”

Guts was put off by the mention of the young princess and picked at a pill on his clothes. “You don’t say.”

A hand settled over his on the bench and Guts turned his head. Griffith had leaned back on his arms, face and hair illuminated by the mottled purple and orange hues of the dying sun. His hair played in silken wisps around his face, his eyes closed in blissful contentment. Guts sighed, realizing his jealousy was not only unwarranted, but utterly pointless. Griffith was never going to belong to any one person; not to the princess, not to his patrons, and certainly not to one of his own soldiers. Like the sun in the sky, he radiated light and warmth. People, like budding shoots, couldn’t help being drawn into that light, that warmth, even though the sun wasn’t aware of them. It didn’t burn for any one plant or animal to flourish under, it didn’t care if it burned too brightly for some and not enough for others. It just burned.

A sense of resignation filling him, Guts slowly laced his fingers through Griffiths and squeezed. After a moment Griffith opened his eyes and turned to smile at him. “I hear they’ve acquired an elephant while we’ve been away. We’ll have to go and see it when we return.”

From anyone else, this would have come across as deliberate avoidance of the unresolved tension between them, but this was Griffith and Guts knew any tension was entirely one sided. The sun didn't concern itself with the thoughts of a tree.

“An ele- _what_?”

“An elephant. They’re leathery-skinned creatures without any hair, twice as tall as a man with huge flapping ears and long noses that touch the ground.” He pantomimed a comical image of the creatures flapping ears, and long nose, snorting a little at his own foolish depiction.

Guts brows skewed in disbelief. “That sounds like something made up to scare kids. Who told you that? Bet it was Rickert...”

“No not at all,” Griffith laughed. “They sound fictional but they are quite real I assure you. I saw a drawing of one in a nature book. Their noses function like a man’s arm, but far more flexible.” He leaned in close and lowered his voice. “Apparently they’re so strong that they carry tree trunks around for sport and can hurl grown men through the air like twigs.”

Guts was dumbfounded. “Why the hell would the king want a monster like that for his garden?”

Griffith shrugged and sat back, an absent smile qwerking the corner of his mouth. He rolled his head and looked at Guts out the corner of his eye. “For the same reason men are compelled to keep wolves and lions and other fierce creatures, I suppose.”

Guts laughed and scratched his jaw. Shaking his head in amusement and leaning back on the wooden bench he said, “Guess you’ll have creatures like that one day huh? When you get your own royal gardens?”

Griffith cast his eyes to one side and gently took hold of his own arm, as though he were cold. Guts eyed him with concern. Even though the light was fading, the air was still very warm.

“Griffith?”

“I suppose I might want them,” he replied, turning his head back. “Would you begrudge me doing something so frivolous?”

Guts laughed loud and bright and further startled Griffith by pulling him against his side in a one armed hug. In a brief show of affection he pressed his lips to the top of his head then rested his chin there as he held him. “When you’re the king I’m pretty damn certain you can do whatever you want.”

Griffith held there for a long while, then pulled away, peering at Guts curiously. Guts eyes shone with good humour and endearment.

In a reverent hush Griffith sighed, “You truly believe in it, don’t you? In my dream?”

Guts gave him a cocky grin. “Well it would be pretty damn stupid of me to risk my neck time and again for it if I didn’t.” He gripped Griffith’s shoulder gently. “Griffith, if there’s any man alive worthy enough to rule a kingdom, to do right by his people, it’s you. You’re going to be king one day, even if I have to die to make it happen.”

In a swift deliberate movement, Griffith wrapped his arms around Guts’ neck and clung to him. Guts froze, instinctively wanting to shrug him off, to avoid the emotions, avoid being touched, but he quickly overcame it. He made sure to keep one hand on the hilt of his sword at all times when they were out of the relative safety of the fort keep, but he wrapped the other around Griffith’s lower back as tightly as he could, tucking his chin over his shoulder.

He smiled softly against his neck, nuzzling closer. “Hey, what’s this all of a sudden?”

Griffith laughed, a quick breathy burst quivering with embarrassment and restrained emotion. “My apologies, I don’t mean to be sentimental. It’s just that the thought of losing you after it took me so long to...” he trailed to a pause, eyes closing a moment. Opening them again he said, “It fills me with so much dread I can hardly bear it.” His pupils narrowed on Guts with a spine-gripping intensity as he took his face in his hands. With quiet conviction, he said, “I truly don’t know what I would do without you, my friend.”

Guts took a pensive breath, staring back at Griffith as long as he dared. His ability to hold eye contact paled in comparison and he pulled his face away. Checking for prying eyes over both shoulders, he drew Griffith into a warm kiss, hand buried in the thick curls at the nape of his neck. When he pulled back he cupped Griffith’s cheek. “I’d hope by now you already know this, but I’ll walk beside you straight into hell if that’s where your dream takes you. I’m not going anywhere.”

Griffith let out a needy, breathy sound from higher in his throat and arching his body to press against Guts, he returned the kiss. Breathing heavily, Guts’ lips, hands, his whole body, tingled with exhilaration. He loved the way Griffith kissed him. The way he tasted. Smelled. Everything about him drove his lust to heights it had never known before. His excitement drew a deep groan of need from him into their kiss. It was further heightened when, in an uncharacteristically wanton fashion, Griffith pulled at Gut’s bottom lip with his teeth. His eyes burned with blue fire as he dragged Guts' hand slowly down his waist coat to press over his groin. He was hard and Guts shivered audibly.

“Love me with your mouth,” Griffith whispered against the shell of his ear. He pushed firmly on Guts’ shoulder, emphasizing his need. It was a request, but only just and Guts hesitantly obeyed, moving off the bench to his knees. The grass was lush and damp and he could feel the wetness through his trousers.

“Right here?” He asked, looking around frantically. Did Griffith not realize they were outdoors? This was an unusually reckless request, he was usually so cautious about maintaining his image. True, they were in a shaded location and the path was obscured by the dangling branches of the willow, but it was _still_ an open garden.

“Griffith anyone could walk around the bend at any moment, are you sure--”

Griffith gripped his hair and tugged his head back.  He looked him square in the eyes. “Yes. Here. _Now_.”

The unbridled masculine tenacity in that punctuated order drove something desirous that lurked in Guts’ subconscious to the surface and he had to bite his lip to stifle a groan. In its normal state, it was the part of his brain that craved structure, order, a sense of belonging. The thing that made him a damned good soldier. In an aroused state though, fires lit, strands crossed and things skewed together in a bizarre sexual fashion that made him hard just _thinking_ about doing exactly what Griffith ordered him to do. His hands had unbuttoned the lower half of Griffith’s waist coat and were tugging down his trousers before he even realized it.

Suddenly face to face with the smooth eagerness of Griffith’s cock Guts hesitated. They’d been intimate on a number of occasions now, and felatio was something Guts had been on the receiving end of many times, but he had never reciprocated. He’d come close once or twice, but something stopped him every time.

“What the matter?” Griffith asked him, his tone wanton, though still carrying an edge of genuine concern.

“I don’t think I can do this.”

“I have every confidence that you can. It’s really not so difficult.”

“I know it's not--Its not that I don't know what to do it's just so _feminine_.”

Griffith glared at him and pursed his lips. “I don’t suppose you’ve considered how many times I’ve--”

“Y _es!_ ” Guts growled. “Yes I have. Please, Griffith, don’t talk about that. About  _them._  Not right now.”

Griffith rolled his eyes and sighed. “If you don’t _think_ you can, then you _won’t_ be able to. It's a mindset for the most part. It takes conviction.” He smiled but there was a dark edge to it that made Guts want to reach out to him. Hold him.

“I struggled with it at first too. I’m sure every man in the history of humanity whose ever done such a thing, forced or otherwise, has experienced the same.”

Guts shifted and moved so he was better positioned on the ground between Griffith’s legs. “You think so?”

“I know so.”

A feeling of guilt filled Guts, but it spurred a sense of determination in him that really bonded with his desire not to let Griffith down, to do what he asked. “Alright. I...I’ll try.”

Griffith stroked his hair gently. “Pleased to hear it. Take your time.”

Guts just went for it, eliminating Griffith’s ability to speak as he stifled a moan with his cupped hand. It was such an odd feeling, having something so warm and smooth and fleshy in his mouth. It was firm, and yet still soft enough to be pliant under the press of his tongue. He rolled his tongue over the tip and Griffith shuddered.

“Y-you see? I told you you could do it,” Griffith gasped, his trembling thighs pressing around Gut’s shoulders. His hand was still threaded through Gut’s hair and hesitantly started to press down. Guts obliged, taking more and more of him into his mouth until it hit the back of his throat. He gagged and panicked, his hand going to his mouth as he drew back coughing and sputtering. He hadn’t vomited, but he’d come close.

Griffith eyed him with concern,  but it was overshadowed by a desperate need. He stroked Guts' jaw repeatedly with the curve of his thumb. “You were doing so well, that was my fault. Please don’t stop.”

Guts was breathing hard, his own arousal being triggered more so from the pressure and nervousness than from the sexual nature of the act he was performing. It took him a moment to regain his confidence, but he nodded his head and Griffith let out a relieved sigh of gratitude as Guts took him back into his mouth.

Moving his head up and down, moving his tongue, Guts tried to replicate what Griffith had done to him in the past. If something he did made Griffith gasp or twitch or buck his hips, he did it again. He found a good rhythm, though he was exceedingly careful not to go down too far again. The last thing he wanted was for Griffith to have to explain how he got vomit all over the lower half of his clothes.

Griffith was fairly quiet in expressing his pleasure, his usual groans and sighs translating into wordless, airy moans and the squeezing of Guts’ shoulders with his fingers and thighs. He kept his hands off Gut’s head until he gasped Gut’s name and tried to pull him away, his climax imminent.

Guts held firm, moving his tongue until Griffith arched his back and came in his mouth. He regretted it almost immediately as the bitter salt of Griffith’s seed touched his tongue, but he didn't pull away. He swallowed repeatedly until Griffith slumped forward to wrap his arms appreciatively around his neck.

He smiled and drew back. “Glad you liked it. That's not a very pleasant flavor is it? No offense I--”

Griffith grabbed his shirt collar and dragged him up. Guts could feel the heat of his breath on his lips and it made his cock twitch.

“It’s something of an acquired taste,” Griffith laughed bitterly. “Here, this should help.” He pulled Guts into a bruising, controlling kiss without warning, his tongue eagerly exploring as much of Guts’ mouth as it could reach. Guts barely had time to react, losing himself in the kiss. His eyes closed and his hands fisted in Griffith’s hair as he kissed him back just as passionately. His mind was swimming; a vibrant pool of need and affection. The knot in his stomach unraveled, splashing down into the pool and threatening to overflow it. He crawled upward smoothly, pressing his hips between Griffith’s legs as he loomed over him on the bench  every moment growing more aggressive. Griffith moaned as Guts tugged his head back by his hair to expose his throat.

“I want to make love to you,” Guts breathed in a heady rush as he kissed and sucked and bit at what little of Griffith’s tender white throat was exposed. The rest was buried beneath an infuriating forest of ruffles and silk. He burrowed his face down into it, hungrily seeking, trying to find more purchase with his lips and tongue. His hoarse groans of passion matched the slow rocking of his hips as he ground his trapped erection futilely between Griffith’s legs. He could feel something, but it wasn’t enough. He needed more.

“Not here Guts, we don’t have--”

A snap in the underbrush startled them both, freezing them in place. A hare dashed through the clearing out of the hedgerow not two seconds after and Griffith immediately began straightening and buttoning his clothes, pushing Guts away.

Guts moved back, perplexed and a little hurt as Griffith coldy buttoned himself and got up.

“I apologize. I pushed you too far. I've got no right to ask that of you after what you've done for me--for all of us."

"On the contrary, Guts. You didn't push too far. In fact, you pushed just enough."

This made Guts pause, hand still outstretched apologetically.

Griffith stared blankly at him for a moment as though considering something, then gave him a suggestive flick of his brow before turning towards the keep with a beckoning tilt of his head.

Guts sat there, dumbfounded as he processed what had just happened. They had never had sex any other way before, mostly because Griffith’s injuries restricted his movement, but did that look mean what he thought it did? He hadn't said no he'd said not _here_. 

“Griffith? _Hey!_ ”

Griffith was already rounding the bend by the time Guts came to his wits and scrambled up off the ground. His knees left deep dents in the manicured grass. He reached down and adjusted himself so he could walk without pinching anything vital then threw his sword over his back.

“Hey, wait!” He called jogging eagerly after him.

He failed to notice the wide eyed servant girl dashing away from behind the hedge, hand pressed tightly over her mouth.

\------

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh oh...


	14. Whole

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Dat Gay Shit™ ahead.
> 
> UPDATE 19/04/2019: Chapter 15 will be out Friday the 26th guys, I apologize for disappointing you. The outline has long since been finished for this story and half the 1st draft of CH15 is written, so rest assured it'll be finished, my pacing is just off due to illness. Normally I write a chapter, from outline to completion, over 3-4 days, working in 4-5 hour chunks. I tried to keep at that pace this week but I could barely make half my usual words per hour. Im just too tired to focus for that long atm. SO, while I adjust to my new fucked up...everything, we'll be switching to a bi-weekly update schedule. I'm hopeful I'll get my energy back soon. I wish I could give you an estimate on that, but I'm taking things day by day. I will update here when necessary, but if you want details or more frequent updates I post instagram stories regularly @Kirin_Riki . You guys bring me alot of joy and happiness and give me so much purpose and I'm truly grateful. Thank you for all your love and support my friends. See you next week.
> 
> UPDATE 17/04/2019 : Just got some pretty devastating health news and not doing or feeling so well. I'm going to try and get chapter 15 out by Friday, but it might be late. Sorry friends. If anything changes I'll keep you posted.

* * *

 

Their return walk through the keep was slow and deliberate. A glance over his shoulder told Griffith Guts was not nearly so on board with the pace, frustration and eagerness flashing in his eyes. He shuddered a little, partly with anticipation, partly with dread. He still didn’t know how he was going to accommodate Guts’ size, though the idea was decidedly arousing. Even so the logic center of his brain was unconvinced as to the merits such an endeavor held and berated him for what he’d let their libido agree to.

The second after he hooked the latch in their room Griffith found himself being scooped off the ground into the air. His crutches clattered to the floor and a cry of surprise whooshed out of him.

“ _Guts!_ Put me down!”

“Huh? Why? You're not heavy.”

Griffith poked Guts’ forehead. “That's not--” he sighed, “I’m a knight. It's rather undignified wouldn't you agree?”

Guts made flustered sounds of deliberation. “I uh--well I thought it would be, maybe sort of--I dunno...romantic.”

Griffiths brow raised. 'Romantic' certainly wasn't a word he ever thought he'd hear from Guts. The voice in his mind cackled.   _Romance? How delightfully naive._

Griffith ignored the taunting voice, smiling at Guts’ reasoning with kind eyes. Stroking his short dark hair with reassuring gentleness he said, “Your sentiment isn't lost on me,” he kissed his forehead, then with a little laugh, remarked, “It just feels strange to be hoisted around like some frail old woman.” This was only partly true. Griffith could feel the firm shift of Guts’ muscular chest and arms. It was disconcertingly erotic and rather distracting, if he were being honest.

Guts laughed so hard he bent forward and Griffith let out a sharp gasp, clinging to his neck with both arms.  

“Alright alright, fine,” Guts grinned, carefully setting him on his feet. “There. Happy now?”

A fierce need to reassert his authority flooded Griffith and he turned, sharp-eyed, to shove Guts up against the wall. He hit with a dull _‘thud!’_ and a cry of surprise.

“Very. You left your defenses _wide_ open.”

Still stunned, Guts blushed a furious shade of amber and gaped at him.

A tilt of his head and a slow pan down Guts' body revealed a sizable bulge in his trousers. Griffith smiled at him wickedly and leaned in, one hand on the wall beside his shoulder.

“It seems you don’t mind a bit of rough handling.”

Guts swallowed apprehensively, his breathing coming short and shallow as he shamefully lowered his eyes. The hesitant smolder as he stared at Griffith showed he was eager to participate but unsure how to respond without admitting it. 

“No, that’s not--y-you got the wrong idea, I...I don’t--”

Griffith bent, nuzzling his neck as he fondled him through the thick fabric of his trousers. Guts' stammering was cut off by a contradictory gasp and a soft stuttering sigh of indulgence.

“That’s not what this part of you is saying.” He could feel Guts trembling under him now and he couldn’t tell if it was from nerves or restraint.

“Griffith…”

The voice whispered in his ear. _He’s eager, Great King. Forget your planned folly and take what is yours. He offers it to you so freely now, doesn’t he?_

It was tempting, but Griffith wasn’t going to deny Guts his body when he’d already made up his mind to give it to him; he was just struggling to let it happen. The notion of giving his dignity away for love, rather than money, was not something he’d put much thought into. He’d detested his ass being used by men for so long that the notion of _wanting_ Guts to make love to him in so shameful a way was a difficult thing for him to accept. Even now, with this show of aggressive dominance, he was grandstanding; delaying; overcompensating.

With resignation he drew back from the wall, away from Guts. He looked him in the eyes and got a brief glimpse of arousal swimming in their dark depths before Guts lifted him by the backs of his thighs and flipped their positions. With an eager gasp of surprise Griffith brought his calves up over Guts' ass, instinctually gripping him to keep from sliding. It hurt his ankle and there was really no need for it--Guts had enough strength to hold him in place against the wall--it just felt good to squeeze his thighs around him.

“What was that about defenses being left open?” Guts teased.

Griffith smirked viciously and took his face in both hands, kissing him without inhibition like some greenhorn recruit drunk on stout for the first time.

He soon found his back pressed into the soft bed, Guts unbuttoning his jacket and waist coat between eager assaults on his mouth. Griffith could have just laid back, let him have his way, but he had played the helpless damsel far too often for other men. He would not do so under conditions of his own choosing. Griffith gripped Guts’ hair with his hand and jerked his head to the side. “I admire your enthusiasm my friend, but…” he pressed his mouth up to his ear, “...if you want me on my knees you’re going to have to fight me for it.”

Guts drew in a sharp breath, visibly shuddering, then accepted the challenge with a laugh; a gravely, wanton burst of masculine amusement that made things twitch and tighten in Griffith's body. Guts pulled off his overcoat and shirt and Griffith’s eyes were drawn to his beautifully sculpted physique like a moth to a flame. “You think that’s a good idea?”

Griffith didn’t hear him at first. He was floating somewhere far away. After a moment the question filtered through and he smirked.

“Questioning your Commander's orders?”  He sat forward to allow his clothing to be pulled off his arms then leaned back on his elbows to cast his gaze up the long, taut line of Guts’ body with unveiled lust.

Guts answered this with a shameful, eager, groan and straddled him, kissing him as he tugged at his cravat. The elaborate bow unraveled easily, letting his shirt collar slide down the line of his bare shoulder. Griffith looked up at him from beneath a fan of lashes as silk pooled around him and Guts gave him a small smile.

"What's that for?" Griffith asked, a pleased warmth in his voice.

Guts cheeks darkened. "It...feels odd to say it aloud, but...you really are beautiful, Griffith, you know that?"

Griffith hadn’t been expecting such a forward compliment. He looked off to one side with a subtle laugh. “I...may have been told once or twice, but thank you just the same." He brushed a stray hair behind his ear with a bashful turn of his wrist. "It means more, coming from you."

Guts made a content sound and lifted Griffith's shirt off. Tossing it to the floor, he eyed him, puzzled. “About that fight? Were you being serious? I mean...It's not going to be much of one, not with your injur--”

With fluidity and ruthlessly executed technique, Griffith had Guts rolled on his stomach and pinned in an arm lock before he could finish. Leaning over him and sounding almost bored, Griffith laughed. “You were saying?”

Guts struggled and growled playfully, clearly thinking this was some sort of game. Griffith’s eyes narrowed deviously as he twisted his friend’s wrist a little harder, putting more pressure on his elbow and shoulder. His behelit swung over his chest as he moved.

_Yes, Dear One. Hold him in your talons. Squeeze. Puncture. Wound._

“Don't struggle,” Griffith ordered softly. “I hear spiral fractures are particularly painful.”

Guts gasped fearfully and Griffith had to stifle a groan. While he would never intentionally injure him ever again, it was oddly arousing to hold the power to do so over his head. He could almost hear the satisfying ‘POP!’ Guts' shoulder had made the time he’d dislocated it and was rather disconcerted by the pleasure it gave him.

Guts huffed with exertion, words straining through gritted teeth, “ _Gghhh!_ _Shit--Ah!_ Easy! _Easy_! Hey! Come on, let me outta this, it bloody hurts!” His voice had lost its playful edge and Griffith shivered with delight. He would have given anything to see his friend’s face just then.

Smiling, he put his mouth next to Guts' ear. “Submit to me and I will.” He twisted again for emphasis and Guts reach back and quickly tapped him on the thigh.

“I _yield! Okay?_ I bloody yield!”

Eyes closed in sweet victory, Griffith savored his win for a moment before letting him go.

Guts rolled to the side, shrugging his shoulder in circles and gingerly bending the other joints.

“That was cheap and you know it,” He grumbled saltily.

Griffith eyed him with delight. “You’re one to talk. You were actually willing to fight me? Even with my ankle bound like this?”

Guts gave him a bewildered look. “Well I didn’t want to, but you said I had to if I wanted to stick it in.”

Griffith laughed and languidly canted back on his arms, not bothering to hide how much pinning Guts down had aroused him. “How eloquent,” he teased. “No, I didn’t actually expect you to fight me. I know you’re too fair-minded to ever agree to such an uneven match.”

Moving next to him on his knees, Guts glared at him sourly. “Then why did you pin me?”

“You’re nothing if not endearing Guts.” Drawing a breath in and biting his lower lip, Griffith ran a hand slowly up Guts’ side from the cut of his hip to just below his bicep. “I pinned you simply because I could.”

At this, Guts’ cock twitched and his abs trembled, curling in slightly as his groin flexed outside of his control. A hunger was building in the warm dark of his eyes that made Griffith’s entire body ache for his touch. He marveled at it as he caressed him with tender purpose, exploring his body and fueling that fire. Slowly he brought Guts lower and lower, his knees unable to hold him. It was a level of desire Griffith had never felt before. He still couldn’t believe his luck in picking someone so perfectly suited for him out of the gore and mud of a random battle field. Not only was Guts an instrumental part of his military operation now, but he was also a perfect companion and sexual partner, challenging and complimenting Griffith in every way imaginable. He deserved every good thing in the world and then some and if it was within Griffith’s power to give it to him he would. With steely determination, he decided it was time.

“Get me the green bottle,” Griffith ordered, his voice hushed and intimate.

Guts nodded obediently and stretched his body out to the bedside table.

“Good, now take off your trousers.” Griffith settled his eyes on him with lascivious intent. _“Slowly.”_

Guts hesitated under the predatory gaze. “I uh...yeah...a-alright.” Eyes averted he hooked his thumbs in the sash around his waist and leaned back, pushing the heavy cloth slowly off his hips. Griffith was frozen in place, watching him with baited breath. From the looks of things, Guts didn’t seem to mind putting himself on display. He had to adjust the sash just to get the waistband of his trousers over his erection.

“Yes, good _._ Now,” Griffith raised his uninjured leg and pressed the toe of his boot firmly against Guts’ chest, “finish undressing me.”

Guts did as he was ordered, first untying the ribbon that served to fit the loose leg of Griffith’s breeches tightly below his knee as well as hold his stocking up, then taking his calf in both hands, caressing it through the tight, warm, leather. Gently he worked the boot off and cast it aside. Griffith’s lips were parted, his head tilted back in rapt fascination as he savored the surprising sensuality of Guts' attention. There was a familiar pleasure in Guts following his orders that, in a sexual setting, took on an entirely new accouterments of sensations and reactions. Trapped in his breeches, his cock was stiff and dewed with lust. His pale skin was flushed a delicate pink over his joints. His nipples had never been harder.

_Your body strains to act for him, Great King, eager to become the harlot it has pretended to be for the wanton defilers of your past._

Griffith shivered, once again in perfect agreement with these humiliating thoughts.

All that was left now was Griffith’s loose white stocking and as Guts drew it down he kissed the creamy skin of his bare calf, inch by slow inch. In particular, he lavished attention over the thin scar running almost the entire length of it, kissing and dragging the plush, moist, inside of his lower lip over the smooth raised line. Griffith shuddered, mouth agape, dripping eager gasps and pleased sighs.

Guts further intensified his actions by holding eye contact with Griffith as he finished his task, removing the stocking that covered his ankle binding. Next, coming between his legs, Guts put his hands over Griffith’s hips and tugged sharply to a rush of surprised breath. Griffith hadn’t been expecting him to be so boldly aggressive, but he certainly wasn’t displeased by it either.

“Kiss me," he begged softly. He did not need to ask twice. Guts was a storm of lust descending upon him, vocalizing his desire in a rich, masculine baritone. It rained down on his mouth, over his neck, his chest. It spilled from his hands, his lips, his throat. Griffith could feel every thick inch of him straining hot and hard against his thigh. Rather than fueling apprehension and doubt, it generated a need he had never experienced, which boiled down to one rapidly recurring thought:

 _“Fill me,”_ he groaned, pushing the oil bottle into Guts’ hand with an urgency that outright frightened him.

Guts shuddered against him and he felt a few warm drops against his thigh before he readjusted them, flipping Griffith gently but firmly onto his stomach.

Panicked, Griffith looked over his shoulder. “Wait! Hold off for just a moment.”

Guts paused, confused.

“You’re too large. You need to open me first.”

This explanation didn't seem to help much.

Griffith sighed. “You need to put your--oh, here, just let me do it.” He took hold of Guts’ hand and applied oil to it liberally. Being stretched wasn’t really something he required anymore, at least not with men of average size, but in Guts’ case however, it was going to be an absolute necessity. He moved them to his ass and gave him an expectant look.

“So...I just...stick them in or…?”

Griffith laughed, warm and low. “Yes, that’s the idea. Slowly, one at a time, just as I've done to you.”

Guts showed his naivete and inexperience undertaking this action more than he had giving felatio or in fact doing any of the activities they’d so far enjoyed together. Guts hesitated more than he ought to of with the first finger, pausing and withdrawing and asking Griffith if he was hurting him so many times that Griffith felt he might die from frustration. When he finally got it all the way inside he groaned with eager surprise under his breath.

"Wow it's..." Guts cleared his throat awkwardly, "...it's--err...just so warm and... _soft_. I...don't know what I was expecting, I just...uh..."

He swallowed forcefully, shuddering so hard Griffith could feel it. All he could do was nod and laugh softly at Guts' endearing reactions.

The second finger went in with far less aplomb. The third with confidence. Griffith writhed a bit as Guts began to spread and move them, gasping out a stifled moan as he pressed down with them and touched something inside that felt marvelous. The General had done something similar and he wondered what it was.

“Sorry, does it hurt?” Guts asked for the hundredth time.

Griffith moaned absently, “ _No--?_ _”_

“You seem surprised by that.”

“I’ve never enjoyed this bef-- _ahh--_ _nghh~!"_ He bit the base of his thumb with a deeply satisfied groan, his eyes rolling back as they slid shut. He'd never felt anything so uniquely pleasing before. He'd get twinges now and again, but nothing this consistently intense. It rode the edge of pleasure and pain so wonderfully it was maddening.

Guts pressed his knees on either side of Griffith’s left thigh and, keeping his fingers inside him, moved up to hover over him. He kissed and licked between his shoulder blades, over the backs of his arms, up his neck, all the while working his fingers in and out of his body. Griffith was enraptured by the sensations, never wanting to give up the feeling of being so loved, so cared for. Not for anything. He would have it forever even if it killed him.

“I think I’m alright to--" he paused to take a reconstituting breath, “--to move forward.” Guts had to remove his fingers as Griffith moved to kneel at the edge of the bed.

“What are you doing?”

Griffith slid back just enough so that his feet stuck out over the edge of the bed, toes pointing at the floor. “If you want me on my knees, this is the only way we’ll achieve it.”

Guts didn’t need any further explanation apparently because he was off the bed and standing behind Griffith in the blink of an eye. A quaking shiver wracked Griffith’s body as Guts methodically stroked the backs of his thighs with his calloused hands. It was just like he’d imagined and it was doing some decidedly erotic things to him that he would never have admitted aloud.

“More oil first, then you can--”

“Already there,” Guts breathed heavily, tossing the nearly empty bottle onto the bed beside him. Griffith looked over his shoulder and his breath snagged in his throat. He watched with glittering fascination as Guts pumped himself, slowly spreading the greasy substance over his cock. He drew his gaze up and found Guts staring at him pointedly, his massive biceps flexing and shifting as he pleasured himself. The firelight flickered over his tanned skin, setting it ablaze, and Griffith knew he’d never have eyes for anyone else ever again as long as he lived. Guts was everything. He was perfection. A beautiful specimen of the masculine form; the most beloved person in his life. He would do anything to keep him near; keep him safe.

Griffith shifted his eyes up through his lashes, the same look he’d given to other men, only this time he meant it. He wanted Guts inside him, to push past his limits and fill him until he couldn’t speak. Guts seemed to sense his eagerness and moved closer between his pale thighs, pushing them apart roughly. Griffith’s head dropped between his shoulder blades, his face lost in a sea of white, veiled by the spill of his hair.

He felt Guts press against him, rubbing the slick head of his cock in teasing strokes over the soft, pliant flesh of his entrance. It felt good in the strangest of ways and he moaned in surprise, unable to resist rocking back against him just a little. This made Guts shudder and begin to push inside. Griffith immediately felt the resistance and a slow build of uncomfortable pressure. He gritted his teeth, taking deep breaths in through his nose and out through his mouth expanding his diaphragm fully each time.

“Slowly,” he coached between breaths.

Guts' bare feet slid dryly over the stone as he adjusted his stance, one rough hand pressing hard on Griffith's lower back, anchoring him as he guided himself in.

Griffith winced sharply after a particularly enthusiastic press and Guts drew back, stroking his thigh to soothe him.

“Did I hurt you?”

Mouth hanging open in a silent 'O' Griffith shook his head no. "Please don’t stop~!" he gasped desperately, his words dodging the tight control of his higher mental faculties and into the arms of his shameless libido.

Guts began anew. In and out, rocking against the gradually weakening resistance in a rhythmic pattern, slowly inching his way in. Griffith winced and gasped, letting Guts handle the pace until one final deep breath let him slip inside. Buried suddenly to the hilt, a shuddering cry of gratified pleasure slid from his parted lips.

“ _God,"_  Guts groaned before drawing his breath in through clenched teeth.

Griffith responded with a shaking sigh followed by a slow, deep breath in. His hips had a tremor now that he couldn't control. Guts caressed him, squeezing and massaging gently as he rocked them both slowly with his hips. This made Griffith shiver, a ragged moan drifting out that tapered to a high, desperate gasp. The physical sensation was one thing, but the fact that it was Guts inside him, filling and stretching him, completing him, put him at a loss for words. None of the other men he’d been with were so large, and yet they had never given him pleasure like this. They’d never given him pleasure at all. Guts entry hadn’t even caused him any pain. Discomfort? Yes. Intense pressure? Yes. But pain,such as he’d felt when uncaring men had roughly forced their way inside him? None whatsoever.

“Hey?” Guts patted his hip tenderly. “Are you alright? Do you need me to pull it out?"

“ _Nnghh--No, no_ I’m fine. Better than fine _ahh--_ actually I...It’s just a lot. _You’re_ a lot.” Griffith laughed.

Guts kissed his neck and it shifted his position inside. Griffith gasped and moaned in earnest, his reactions his own; entirely ungoverned and unadulterated by motive. Taking a sobering breath and lifting his head up, Griffith locked his elbows and, looking over his shoulder once, slowly began to rock backwards. A deeply rooted groan reverberated through his entire body as a need he didn’t even know he had was satisfied. Guts was so big that he was hitting that place he’d been touching with his fingers with each stroke and Griffith couldn’t believe how good it felt. He’d never felt any pleasure from being penetrated before now. Was Guts size the only thing different? He could analyze his data for days and probably never know for sure.

“Is it-- _m_ _hh~_ l-like this when I'm inside you?” He gasped suddenly, rocking his body backwards and tilting his hips, seeking more of the bewildering new pleasure he’d discovered. He felt so full, so complete. _Whole._

Guts moaned, voice deep with exertion, and grabbed Griffith's hips. Unexpectedly thrusting it drove another high moan from him, his upper body collapsing, leaving his hips to fend for themselves at a severe angle. 

“Not an expert," Guts grunted, his pace slow so he could form words, "but it’s good when you do it. Like you're touching my dick from inside my ass."

“Eloquent as always,” Griffith moaned with amusement.

Guts rocked into him, crooning affectionately and kissing the tender junction of his ear and jaw.

“Can I?” he asked finally, his question so filled with urgency and lust it needed no further explanation.

“Do it.”

Rocking faster and faster, Guts' hips were soon moving in a hard rhythm. He drove into Griffith over and over, shaking his shoulders and jarring his ankle. Griffith didn’t care. The pain mixed with his pleasure in brilliant colorful waves that pulsed slowly outward through his entire body. Never had he felt so debased, so degraded and yet so fulfilled and deeply pleasured. If sex had been like this with other men he might have considered doing it for less compensation. Had he changed somehow or was Guts the anomaly? When Guts reached around and began stroking him in time with his thrusts, Griffith stopped thinking. Melting from the waist down he moaned loudly and without restraint, grinding his hips back and letting the baser, animalistic side of his inner psyche take control. The voice could not break through the fogged wall of his pleasure to ridicule him now. He was a desperate, craven, hungry thing. He was--

“ _Ahh~Guts I--!”_

Griffith’s first true penetrative orgasm wracked his body, bowed his spine; a shamefully masculine grunt of satisfaction escaping him that careened into a rapid, moaning crescendo. His elegant fingers gripped the duvet so tightly they hurt.

Guts was not far behind him, grunting and shuddering like an animal in heat as he rutted against him and Griffith relished every sound, every possessive thrust.

“ _Come inside,_ ” he begged wantonly, using his spent body to move and draw pleasure from him any way he could.

The only real pain Griffith felt as he was so thoroughly fucked by his dear friend, his most trusted soldier, was that when Guts was on the edge of his orgasm. He thrust into him with such force that it pushed him forward on the bed and bent his injured ankle. The pain was so intense he might have vomited if his consciousness hadn’t blacked out. The last thing he heard as the room swam and his stomach churned was Guts’ spine-tingling sex cry as he filled the object of his desire with the searing culmination of his pent up lust.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Cum at me bruh."  
> Get it.  
> Cuz...  
> Ah you get it ;)
> 
> Also if you want to see my artwork for this series (or just tons of gay/meme Berserk shit in general) I have an insta @Kirin_Riki
> 
> *EDIT Here's a video walkthrough of the layout of Griffith's rooms at Charcy  
> [on my insta.](https://www.instagram.com/tv/BwlvHwOH8nX/?utm_source=ig_share_sheet&igshid=16kxtf9e8h8l9)


	15. Heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks everybody for the well wishes and your patience. We'll be on the bi-weekly schedule for the next chapter as well, see you May 10th :)
> 
> 2019/05/10 2:49pm: Chapter 16 will be up in a few hours guys, thanks for being patient :)

The master surgeon was roused from bed when, in a panic, Guts came running to the medics for assistance. This was not yet thirty minutes ago, but already Griffith had been situated comfortably in bed with extra pillows and given a strong dose of poppy tea to ease his pain. The chief medic, surgeon and alchemist of the Keep were always quick to act when a Lord’s health was concerned, but even quicker still with _this_ Lord in particular. Under the General’s direct orders they were to attend Count Griffith as fast as they would his own wife and children, and so help them if they failed. He gave no explanation for the graveness of this order--nor, as a Lord, was he required to--but those in his employ had heard similar speeches during the visits of similarly attractive young aristocrats over the years and tongues had a tendency to wag below stairs. The master surgeon was one such long standing member of the General’s household and, based on his experiences within said household and the kinds of guests they'd played host to, he did not believe for a second that the strapping mountain of a man guarding the infamous White Hawk was telling the whole truth about his injury. The particularly fetching Lords with which General Vorhees made acquaintance always seemed to have a man such as this one close at hand and Count Griffith was seemingly no exception. The old surgeon had his suspicions as to why this was so, but he wisely kept these suspicions to himself. You didn’t gain status in a noble house spouting rumors of immoral conduct among your Lord and his peers.

“How... _exactly..._ did you say this happened, My Lord?”  

Guts, who had been shifting aimlessly around the room since the surgeon arrived, trying not to look overly concerned, moved to sit by the open window.

“Do you have cotton in your ears old man? I already told you he fell getting out of bed to take a piss.”

"And... you just happened to be near enough to hear the commotion and come to his aid?"

Guts scowled at him and nodded. "That's what I told you the first time, and the second and that's what I'm telling you now. Ask me again and I'm gonna put a hole in you so big they'll be cleaning the sand from your ancient husk out of the mortar for weeks!"

Griffith shot Guts a look and cleared his throat loudly. “Please excuse him Master, it's late and we're all tired. Ignoring his somewhat uncouth method of delivery, the information he's giving you is correct. I fell and jarred my foot on the stone. Foolish of me I know.” He laughed sleepily then yawned.

The surgeon’s sharp eyes narrowed on Guts from amidst a sea of wrinkles. “No need for apologies My Lord. These things...happen.” The surgeon’s voice was as dry and wispy as the few strands of hair left on his head. Though he was speaking to Griffith, his eyes remained on Guts, bunching with accusation and suspicion. The surgeon was not convinced by either man’s explanation; the bed was barely a foot off the ground and the hearth was still giving off plenty of light, to say nothing of the candelabras and deep-welled sconces.

Guts bit his tongue, not wanting to embarrass Griffith any further, and looked away. He could still feel the spindly old man’s gaze trying to bore straight through him.

“There’s fever in the joint," The surgeon explained as he rose to his feet, old bones creaking and popping. "Not much more I can do for it now and, you're right, My Lord, it is rather late.” He gathered his small collection of supplies into his satchel. When Guts gave him a concerned look the surgeon took pity on him and went on. “It's a simple imbalance of the humors, nothing at all to worry about.” For all his gruffness, the hand the surgeon placed on Griffith’s arm was gentle and comforting; a true healer's touch that couldn’t be turned off if he’d tried. “I’ll send for the leech healer at first light.”

Griffith went pale at this--an impressive feat given his porcelain complexion--which both amused and puzzled Guts.

“My sincerest gratitude, Master Surgeon,” Griffith managed to get out half intelligibly, eyelids struggling to stay open. He was fading before Guts’ eyes, the strong tea rapidly tugging at his consciousness. The old man nodded brusquely, as though he didn’t need the thanks, and turned to the door. Guts, who’s final perch ended up being  the window seat, got up and saw him out to the hall.

“Make sure he keeps off of it,” the old man instructed quietly. “Keep him in that bed, and keep him _still._ ” Guts set his jaw at the old man’s accusatory glower. “I mean that in earnest. It could hinder the healing process entirely if he continues to aggravate the injury.”

Guts rubbed his neck. He knew in this situation Griffith would come up with some beautiful, fictional, explanation on the spot that the old man would no doubt eat up, but he was not nearly as clever or well spoken. “He only hurt it this one time, I don’t know what you’re--”

“Don’t even try, _boy_. I’ve been doctoring broken bones for longer than you’ve been alive.” He pointed at Guts. “The amount of fever in that ankle is the result of irritation over a prolonged period of time, _not_ a single instance.”

Guts’ shoulders curled inward, his resolve to do or say anything rapidly fleeing in the face of the old man’s confidently delivered facts. “I... don’t know what you--”

The near-empty bottle of lubricating oil being pressed firmly into his hand, accompanied by a smug glare from the medic, stymied any further attempt to lie.

“That _particular_ variety of oil is imported from the Empire,” explained the surgeon. “You best be careful where you leave it next time, it nearly tumbled off the bed when I moved the duvet.”

Now at a complete loss for words, Guts whisked the bottle behind his back and stared at his feet, face red as a robin’s breast.

The old man sighed irritably. “Oh don’t look so alarmed. It’s not my place to judge either of you.” Guts raised his head cautiously and the old man smiled at him. “It’s God’s.”

Guts mouth was suddenly moving at a rapid pace, a slew of vocables and half-formed beginnings of sentences that went nowhere tripping over one another as he fought to say something--anything--to defend his and Griffith’s honor, to explain, to--

The old surgeon snorted and waved a dismissive hand as he headed slowly down the hall. “Oh don’t even bother. I’m old, I’m tired and I don’t want to hear it.” He started shuffling away then turned around. “You're hardly the first men I’ve met who engage in such acts of moral indecency.” He jabbed a knobbly thumb towards the suite. “Just keep him _still._ If his injury doesn’t cool and heal he might never walk properly again. His days of campaigning would be over.”

Beyond embarrassed Guts glanced nervously over his shoulder through the door at Griffith. Thankfully he’d dozed off. He turned to the old man once more, but couldn’t look him in the face. He lowered his head and nodded obediently. “I will.”

_“Good.”_

Guts waited until the old man was well and truly out of sight before ducking back into the room. He fell back heavily against the iron-banded door, eyes shutting with a ragged sigh as he locked it. He couldn’t believe they’d been so careless. He’d been so worried when he'd realized what had happened to Griffith that he’d rushed things. He'd cleaned him up and carefully situated him against the pillows, but in his hurry to get to the medic Guts forgot all about the oil bottle and now that old man knew something that could destroy everything Griffith had worked for. He made up his mind to deal with the situation himself, if necessary. He would keep Griffith’s dream alive no matter what.

At that moment, a muffled sound of recognition drew Guts’ attention to the bed. It was followed by a slow, incoherent string of needy, beckoning sounds.

“Griffith? What’s the matter? Do you need something?”

Half dozing in a poppy coma, Griffith waved a limp hand at him and mumbled something inarticulate that sounded like, “Come here.”

Guts smiled affectionately at his friend--Lover? Partner? Commander?--He didn’t even know what they were to each other anymore. He supposed it didn’t much matter as he crawled onto the bed next to him, taking his lazily waving hand and holding it tight.

“Guts?”

“Mhmm.” Guts stretched out, propped on his arm and grinned audibly.

Griffith sounded like a man on a bender, words coming slow and blending together at the ends. “Wha--what's so funny?”

Guts whistled low in astonishment.  “He _sure_ gave you a lot of that poppy stuff huh?”

Griffith’s head rolled lazily towards him and he caught the briefest flash of blue eyes. “Mmm. It's strange,” he murmured, eyes closing. He waved his other hand gently. “I feel so...light.”

Guts huffed in amusement. “I'll bet.” He let Griffith's hand go and hesitantly stroked his hair. “I’m sorry, by the way. I know it's my fault this happened.”

“It was worth it.”

Guts blushed and stammered, "Y-yeah?”

“Mhmm,” Griffith sighed, leaning his head into Guts’ touch. “I...I actually finished.”

Guts stifled a laugh. If Griffith could hear what he sounded like he’d be mortified. “You _certainly_ did.”

“I never have before. Not...from that.”

Guts chose to ignore the implications of that statement and swallowed thickly. “No?”

Griffith shook his head then groaned sickly as though that had been a bad idea. He took several deep breaths then suddenly, and with grave concern, looked up at Guts. Blinking wide upside down doe-eyes at him, he asked, “Did _you_ finish?”

Guts’ cheeks darkened, remembering every moan, every thrust in bright, flashing, detail. After a long moment he said, “I did.” No greater understatement had ever been made in his opinion.

“Ins _ide_ me?”

Guts was growing more embarrassed by the second. Were they really having this conversation right now? Had that been the wrong thing to do? “I--you, uh...y-you told me to, so...I did.”

Griffith's face quirked in concentration and he laughed a little, shifting his lower body _just_ so. “Really? I don't feel it.”

“You don’t feel wh--” realization dawning in a hot flush over his entire face, Guts slapped a hand over his eyes with a groan. “Just go to sleep, Griffith. We can talk tomorrow when you're more yourself, alright?”

Griffith nodded lethargically and cuddled against him. One arm thrown over his stomach, he rested his head on Guts’ chest with a relaxed sigh. After a while, his breathing started to level out and Guts, who was both exhausted and overcome by quite a number of emotions he was unused to dealing with, gave in to his gentler nature and began affectionately playing with Griffith's hair. It was warm and silky between his fingers as he stroked his fingers through the dense waves. He wondered briefly if this was what clouds would feel like on a sunny day, if he could get high enough to touch one.

“Guts...that’s--” Griffith yawned at length, “--s-so...nice...”

“Shh,” Guts soothed gently. “Just sleep, idiot.”

“Mmm,” Griffith groaned in soft agreement. Nuzzling closer he murmured something against Guts' chest that made his hand freeze in mid stroke. Had Griffith...had he heard him correctly? If he had...what did that mean for them as comrades in arms? As friends? Nobody had ever said that to him before--not since he’d lost Shizu, the only mother he’d ever known--and the concept was earth shaking. He knew what it felt like to be pierced by a spear, slashed by a sword, but not how it felt to be loved by someone. For the first person to ever say such a thing to him to be a man--No. His mind had started to wander down the dark path it took when he was alone and he shook his head. He would not let such thoughts root their way in an spoil this moment. Besides, Griffith was more than a man: he was an unparalleled force of positivity and change who’d not only pulled Guts into his life, but given him a home and a purpose. Thinking of him that way helped put Guts' mind back on the lit path it had strayed from and he smiled just a touch. For Griffith to be the one to say those words to him, even if he was half asleep and heavily medicated, meant more to him than he ever realized it would. It was really doing a number on his heart and it took him a good long while to rebuild his composure, to settle back into the new equilibrium he’d managed to find at Griffith’s side not only as his comrade in arms, his best friend, but as his lover. He knew now the order in which those three roles fell and it was a comforting revelation to say the least.

He looked up at the ceiling and sighed, eyes closing as he took a deep breath. The happiness they’d managed to chip out of life’s inhospitable desert of brimstone and shit would not sit well with most people. Even if they were a more conventional couple--a man and a woman--people wouldn’t understand; the bond they shared was wholly and truly unique. If this was what love looked like for them--even if it wasn’t the same as it looked to others--he was content with that.

After a long quiet minute Guts held Griffith possessively with both arms. Eyes closing, he pressed his lips into his hair and just held them there. Felt him breathing and alive against his body. Then, when he was absolutely certain Griffith was asleep, he whispered, “I...love you too.”

The warm smile that crept over Griffith's sleepy face when he heard this went entirely unnoticed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the diabetes. Here's some insulin.
> 
> [ ]--["""""|"""""|"""""|"""""|]>\----------


	16. Egress

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone and happy update Friday! I'm starting to get the handle on things here and feeling much better on my new medication. Chapter 17 will be up May 24th, and from that point onward I am hoping to move back to our regular weekly updates :)

Griffith spent the next week bound to his bed, ankle atop several feather pillows. The leech healer came and went, as did the surgeon, the alchemist and the General himself. Griffith muscled through the visits, all the poking and the prodding, with as much grace and dignity as he could. The leech treatments on the other hand…

It had been all he could do not to jerk away from the gnarled old woman and her jar of slithering evil. Guts had watched everything with a humorous smirk from across the room and Griffith had to resist the urge to throw something sharp at him. Guts, he knew, wasn’t bothered in the slightest by spiders, snakes, bats, beetles, worms or whatever other crawling, skittering thing with too many--or not enough--legs nature could throw at him. Griffith was the same in that regard. Except for leeches.

Regardless of how much he hated them, the old woman's daily visits were a relief from the monotony of lying in bed all day. To put it lightly, he was bored out of his skull. Guts wouldn’t let him out of bed for any reason, unless it was to bathe or use the chamber pot. He wasn't kind about it either. In fact, Griffith had never seen him so forward in his assertions, nor had he ever shown such aggressive concern for his health. He’d tried the first day to get up and Guts had physically pinned him by the chest with one arm to keep him in bed. Despite knowing several maneuvers to break free of such a minimal hold, Griffith could not physically resist him. His dose of tea left his limbs far too uncoordinated. Guts was in control of everything from that point forward: bringing him books, helping him eat, change, bathe and relieve himself. Any attempt Griffith made to mitigate this control was swiftly thwarted under the pretense that he might “hurt himself again”.

As the days dragged on Griffith sorely began to miss their evening walks by the lakeside. The easeful conversations they had about absolutely nothing as they sat nestled among the shadowed ferns had come to be something he looked forward to everyday. The sound of the leaves rustling in the breeze was therapeutic and it made his heart fill with warmth to see Guts’ bronze skin glowing in the dappled golden hues of dying sunlight that filtered through the hanging willow branches. It was largely for the best that Guts would not let him enjoy these things though, despite how badly Griffith longed for them. With the doubled dose of poppy tea he was imbibing, he wouldn’t have made it thirty feet under his own power. Just staying awake was often a struggle after each cup. As the days dragged on through endless looping spirals of fog, a singular topic snagged like a parasite in his mind: following orders made him incredibly uncomfortable. More specifically, following orders from _Guts_  made himuncomfortable. He tried to put a finger on why, but everytime he grew close to the answer it was pulled away from him, deep down into the swirling dark he dare not venture into.

Gradually, the fever in Griffith's ankle subsided and the leech healer no longer had to visit him for daily treatment, much to his everlasting relief. The Alchemist also began reducing his dose of pain-relieving tea, which allowed more thoughts to re-enter his mind. His focus however, did not change. All he could think about was Guts, his relationship with him now and what impact the sexual dynamic between them would have on his leadership of the band. Would Casca figure it out? How would Judeau react? Rickert? Corkus? He wanted to give his comrades the benefit of the doubt and assume they would not care nor cast judgment, but he didn’t trust any of them completely. Not with something like this.

As he watched the beams of light crawl from one side of the purple silk canopy above him to the other, day in and day out, he reached the overwhelming conclusion that, should this information get out among the officers, things were going to change--that power would shift--whether he liked it or not. Building upon that, the thought of his and Guts’ return to camp from this soft microcosm they'd built under the power of their own affection now greatly concerned him. It was easy to imagine staying this way, lounging about aimlessly and doing nothing but enjoy each others bodies. His dreams would not allow for such a thing, at least, not until they were much older and he had secured a kingdom of his own. This was precisely why, after his week of forced bed-rest under Guts’ iron hand, Griffith's first call to action was to take to his writing desk.

“Who's that for?” Guts asked, indicating the letter with his chin. Griffith was sitting in his long untied nightshirt, melting a candle over a double folded piece of parchment.

“Casca,” he replied matter-of-factly, pressing his seal into the thick blue puddle. When he peeled it up some moments later a Band of Hawks insignia was left behind in winged relief.

Guts leaned against the desk and looked down at him pointedly, arms crossed. “You worried?”

Griffith put a curled finger to his chin and looked up thoughtfully. “Not exactly.” He turned now to Guts. “It _would_ ease my mind to receive a formal written report of this past months regime though.” He handed Guts the freshly sealed letter and gave a presumptive look at the door behind him. Guts’ expression skewed critically.

“You're sending a formal summons? To _Casca?_ ”

“Do you have a problem with that, Captain?” Griffith snapped, surprising both Guts and himself. Both their mouths hung open a moment as a strange silence settled between them. Rank was something they had largely done away with except in public settings where specific social roles were expected of them.

“I--uh, n-no…Commander.” Guts stiffened, his face a poorly concealed wash of confusion and hurt.

Griffith put fingertips to his dewed brow. Eyes closed, he could feel the room spinning ever so slightly. He swallowed his nausea, then apologized. “I’m sorry, Guts. Please don't take that to heart. I'm not feeling like myself today.”

In actuality he'd been suffering from headaches, cold sweats, restless agitation and persistent waves of nausea for several days now, but had been concealing it from Guts for fear he'd try and keep him in bed indefinitely. The voice in his mind had been blissfully silent while he'd been floating on heavy doses of tea, but since it had been reduced--lower even than before the increase, he’d noticed--Griffith found himself at odds with _Her_ once again. The ceaseless chattering and commenting in the back of his mind was doing nothing to help ease his irritability.

“It's alright,” Guts shrugged. The movement was compact. Tense.

“My friend, I really am sorry. I didn't mean to put rank between us. You should know be now how much I care for you and it's my fault entirely if you don't.”

Guts stared at the fireplace in silent contemplation for a long time. Griffith wondered what was going through his mind.

“Do you... really care that much?”

“Of course I do.”

“Even though I'm just a soldier?”

This hurt Griffith to hear in so many ways and he made a sympathetic sound to that affect as he looked up. When he caught Guts’ eye something passed between them; something tender and vulnerable. Griffith stood and caressed his jaw. “Guts, from the day I claimed you as my own right up until this very moment, you have never been _just_ a soldier.”

Time slowed down to watch as Griffith drew Guts into a meandering string of sweet, reassuring kisses. It wasn't long before Guts' large hands gripped Griffith by the waist, the strength in them betraying Guts' eagerness in ways words never could.

Griffith’s sudden gasp separated them, a hesitant look passing over his face as he drew back. He might have been ill, but he'd developed an erection all the same. It was registering in his mind as something shameful; a weakness to be dealt with. Despite the frequency of their sexual relations, it was still a very foreign experience for Griffith to be so easily aroused. This past month was a far cry from the vast majority of his life, where it was exceedingly rare for him to be aroused _period._ He swiftly turned his head away and tugged his nightshirt down.

Guts caught his chin and ducked to the side in order to kiss him. Griffith didn’t allow it, keeping his lips pressed shut.

“Hey,” Guts said softly, “What's wrong?”

Though reluctant to divulge this information Griffith didn’t see any real point in lying. “Never in all my life have I been as aroused by someone as I am by you. It can be a touch overwhelming.”

“Really?”

Griffith nodded and squeezed his eyes shut. “It's frightening, how desperately I want you.”

Guts ghosted his fingertips down both Griffith’s arms, causing a round of shivers to blossom over his pale skin.

“How come?”

“Well, I...” Heat rose furiously to Griffith's cheeks as he struggled to voice his desires. “I don't know exactly.”

_So you're a liar as well as a whore? How interesting. Truly, you are a King of many talents._

Guts laced their fingers together and it was Griffith's turn to freeze as he loomed ever closer. “Let me rephrase that: _How do you want me_?”

A stifled moan accompanied Griffith's intense shudder of pleasure as Guts’ question was followed by slow, lingering kisses across the underside of his jaw and down over the fluttering pulse in his throat.

“I--I want your...I want you to--” His words were cut off by a quick gasp that was half pleasure, half surprise when Guts started massaging his ass with both hands.

Guts made a sound of affirmation, as though Griffith's reaction had confirmed something for him. “I think I get it,” Guts whispered. In a particularly brash move, he pulled Griffith’s ass apart gently and ran a teasing finger all the way from bottom to top.

Griffith jerked and clung to him tighter, drawing in a sharp, shallow, breath that betrayed his desire for more intimate exploration. He tried to say something, but Guts’ lips were so thick and hot pressed against his cool flesh that Griffith could hardly think straight let alone speak. That was to say nothing of what he was continuing to do with his hands.

“Is  _this_ \--?” Guts hedged, his finger replacing his words as he pressed and rubbed suggestively over Griffith's entrance.

 _“Yes,”_ Griffith exhaled wantonly, rolling his head to the side and pulling his hair aside so Guts had access to more of his decolletage. Guts actually drew back in surprise.

Griffith leveled him with a haunting blue stare, his desire smoldering beneath fans of thick, dark lashes.

Guts didn’t need any more clarification than that.

 

Ten minutes later they were both nude, both in bed. Griffith’s thighs were parted to let Guts press as close as humanly possible to him as they engaged in a feverish bout of kissing and frottage. Guts only stopped to retrieve the oil they needed to move things from simulated penetration to actual penetration. Rather than returning to his position between Griffith's thighs though he stopped, sitting on the edge of the bed with the bottle clasped in his hand. Griffith eyed him with equal parts desperation and concern. His cock was so hard it was starting to hurt.

“What's the matter?”

Guts turned slowly, as though he'd been lost in his head somewhere and it had taken him a second to get out.

“Maybe...we shouldn't do this right now.”

Griffith was genuinely shocked, his lips parting as his brows drew together in confusion.

“ _What?_ Why not?”

“Just something the surgeon said to me after you fell asleep. It’s bothering me…”

Griffith waved a dismissive hand. “Whatever it was I’m certain it doesn’t apply now. That was seven days ago after all.”

Guts sighed with resignation and, much to Griffith’s relief, crawled back to him. Handing him the bottle Guts settled back into the inviting warmth between his parted thighs. Griffith bit his lip, savoring every hot, weighty inch of Guts' body against his. His desire to feel Guts inside him again was, admittedly, as perplexing as it was embarrassing, though in such an aroused state, the shame of craving something he'd disdained for so long only added fuel to the fire.

“I suppose you're right,” Guts said, kissing him. Griffith kissed him back, squeezing and fondling his substantial amount of chest  muscle as he shamelessly rocked his groin against him. He was trying to disengage Guts’ higher faculties and put his libido back in charge, but it was no use. Guts turned his head away. “I’m sorry I don’t think I can do this. I don't want to hurt you again.”

Griffith let his mouth roam possessively over Guts' chest and neck, sucking and nipping gently. “Let me worry about that” He smiled and shook the small bottle suggestively. “Give me your hand.”

“But, Griffith, the surgeon told me--”

“I do beg your pardon, but that wasn't a _request,_ Captain _.”_ He was only half teasing. If God had created a human being with more steadfast determination than Griffith, he had surely kept them in heaven.

Guts actually got up on his arms and frowned. “That’s not funny.”

“It wasn’t really a joke.” Griffith took hold of his chin and looked him dead in the eyes. “I _want_ you and it displeases me that you're questioning my own ability to know if I’m fit enough to handle you.”

“Griffith,” Guts pleaded, “It’s not that. I want to. I really, _really_ do.” He sat back on his heels, fists on his knees, eyes averted and filled with remorse. His cock was still hard and standing out in a proud bronze curve between his thighs. Griffith couldn't help but stare in amazement, still unsure how he'd managed to fit it all inside him during their last sexual encounter, or why he was so eager to do it again.

“This is...for the best.”

Griffith eyed him venomously, up and down as he got off the bed. His headache was returning with a vengeance. How wonderful.

“What's for the best? What are you doing?”

“Leaving.”

Griffith laughed in cold disbelief. “Really? And who gave you permission to do so?” Griffith looked around the room, looking for this imaginary higher-ranked officer.

Guts ran a hand through his hair and put his back to Griffith, clearly not taking the bait. He tugged on his pants and as he tied them, he gave Griffith an empathetic look over his shoulder. “You’re going to get hurt again if I don’t leave.”

“And what makes you so certain?”

Guts pulled on his shirt then crawled back to Griffith on the bed to kiss him roughly--almost brutally. When he finally pulled away, Griffith was not only out of breath, but shivering. Guts looked down at him and, with only the barest hint of regret said, “Because I almost couldn’t keep my hands off you while you were laid up this past week. It took everything I had not to try and get you to--” He clenched his fist. “Look, I want you too badly and I don’t trust myself to hold back. If I hurt you again I--” He flinched harshly and got off the bed to put on his boots. “You’ll thank me later, I promise.”

Griffith was beside himself. Not only was his order being disobeyed by his most loyal captain, he was being made to feel like some greedy insatiable whore, unwilling to let his sinful desires go unsatisfied.

 _Unacceptable_ _. Inexcusable. How dare he discard you as though you were some broken toy. If a king wishes to be bent over and taken for all he's worth, that is his prerogative! The gall of this pathetic interloper. Defying you, leaving you--_ YOU-- _our most sacred, our most beloved,  our King of Want and Desire. How dare he! HOW DARE--!_

Griffith cringed. He hurt in places he didn’t know he could. His eyes burned with shame and guilt and he didn't want to be left alone with the screaming witch in his head. Eyes falling heavily to the duvet he resorted to begging. He reached out to grab a section of Guts' cloak. “Please, don’t leave, Guts. We don’t have to--”

“I'm not going _forever_ ,” Guts interrupted with a small reassuring laugh. “I’m just delivering your summons to Casca.” He shifted his cloak and re-adjusted his sword across his back. The clinking of metal fasteners and rustling of heavy fabric made Griffith have flashbacks to every traumatizing moment he’d sent Guts out with no assurance he’d return. Guts moved to the side of the bed and put a gentle hand on Griffith’s head. “Don’t look so put out,” he scolded gently, stroking him like one might a large shaggy-haired dog who'd lost his favorite bone. “You were going to send me to do this today anyway, weren’t you?”

Griffith nodded, though only just.

“There. See? Just stay in bed and rest one more day.” He bent next to Griffith’s ear, whispering, “The sooner you heal up, the sooner I can give you _exactly_ what you want, _exactly_ the way you want it given to you.” Though he seemed confident, Guts was blushing so hard Griffith could feel the heat of it on his face when he hesitantly pecked his cheek. Gestures of affection were still new and evolving between the two of them. Sometimes they were awkward and stilted; almost forced. Sometimes they were passionate, loving and genuine. This was a demonstration of the former, rather than the latter.

Guts gave him a small, encouraging smile--one which Griffith did not return--before turning to leave, heavy red cloak swirling around him. “I’ll be back before dark.”

The heavy door shut behind him, and Griffith jumped. For a long while he just remained on the bed were he’d been left, processing.  He’d never, in all his life, been sexually rejected before. Not by one single person, before now. It was a crushing blow to his ego and in his current state of agitation it began to eat at him. The Voice came to the fore, feasting on the crumbling remains of his emotional stability.

 _Such a loathsome, disrespectful creature. He owes you everything. He is yours to do with as you please. He knows this and yet this is how he treats you? A King takes what he wants and discards all those that displease him. He may be your current prize, Dear One, but he is surely the first of a great many. A skilled whore can always find other partners, others to claim, possess, use. Surely then,_ you _can find some other cock to fill your--_

A rolling avalanche roared over Griffith and he screamed in frustration and hurt. One moment he was staring blankly after Guts, emotions nowhere to be found, the next he was clenching his teeth and hurling the green oil bottle across the room. It exploded against the rear wall of the fireplace in a glittering cloud before being consumed in a burst of vicious white flames. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Griffith jonesing for The D™ _and_ opium? Man that's gotta be rough, whoever is writing this should be ashamed of themselves! 
> 
>  
> 
> Wait...


	17. Bloom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is 1000% NOT a fucking M-Preg. Nobody pointed it out or said anything, but I was HIGH as BALLS the other day and it dawned on me that Griffith being sick and shit might make some of y'all motherfuckers think I'm routing this down a road to SIN. If you think for a minute I'd put THIS MUCH WORK into a story that was gonna rail road me straight to hecking HECK and make all of you guys wish I'd never been born, then I have lost all faith in humanity. Griffith is NOT gonna shit out a baby. Thank you for coming to my Ted Talk.
> 
> See you for the next chapter on June 7th.  
> ps I don't hate mpreg plz like comment and subscribe this video brought to you by skillshare.
> 
> Update 05/06/2019 14:32--Chapter 18 will be up Sunday this weekend guys stay tuned :)

 

Several hours of reading did nothing for Griffith’s headache, though he’d had little else to occupy his mind. Guts’ sexual rejection, however well-meaning, had driven a bitter wedge into his self-esteem and thinking about it had only driven it in deeper, forcing the dissonant crack to spread. While botanical taxonomy was not an especially riveting subject, translating the latin as he read was far less painful a mental task than the alternative. He’d just finished a section on _solanaceae_ varieties when General Vorhees arrived at his door. An intense drive to prove his desirability almost saw Griffith propositioning the old man; a deeply set, wanton expression in his eyes as he opened the door. It evaporated the moment he noticed the General’s young son Alois peering timidly out from behind his father’s legs. His mood deflated instantly, which surprised him at first. He liked children, in fact he often found himself relating to them more easily than he did their adult counterparts. His irritation now wasn’t the child’s doing, he reasoned, but merely the result of his emotional turmoil and the fact that his brain was trying to hammer it’s way out of his skull.

“You’ve brought the Young Master with you." Griffith smiled at the General as best he could, though admittedly it wasn’t his best performance. "What a pleasant surprise.”

He cast a critical glance at the little boy, evaluating him for the first time. He’d of course seen the child in passing, but he was a quiet boy and Griffith had never paid much attention to him before now. He’d had no reason to. Given that this was his first relevant interaction with the Generals’ only remaining heir, he felt it prudent to take notes in greater detail. The boy was short for his age and looked like he would collapse in a stiff breeze, but he wasn’t an ugly child by any means.  His striking green eyes stood out in contrast against a head of thick brown hair and a face skewed to the unremarkable by the rounded plumpness of childhood. Under Griffith’s scrutiny, the boy trembled and clung to his father's trousers, timidly avoiding Griffith’s eyes. He clutched a small ivory figure of a knight on a warhorse to his chest like a monk might a rosary.

“No need to be afraid, Young Master Alois,” Griffith said with a friendly grin of reassurance. “I am Lord Griffith. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” He bent and extended a hand for the boy to shake. In so doing he was not only showing respect to the boy’s father, but building a foundational relationship with the noble peer the child would one day become. Alois was having none of the decorum. He gave a yip of alarm as the hand came toward him and he slid behind Roland’s legs, peeping out with nervous awe a few seconds later.

The General laughed and put a reassuring hand on his son’s head. Voice brimming with pride he said, “Our Alois might be a shy lad now, but he's a knight in his heart. One day he'll be big and strong and lead thousands into battle, won't you Allie?”

The boy nodded absently, clutching his toy to his chest in a two handed death grip. The General gave Griffith a good-natured smile of apology on Alois’ behalf then nudged the boy toward the large fireplace. “Go on now, off with you to play lad.”

Alois kept a wary eye on Griffith as he shuffled past him in as wide an arc as the space allowed. Once his feet touched the thick bearskin rug near the central fireplace he flopped down on his stomach, gave Griffith one more anxious glance, then began to play. His demeanor seemed to change in a flash as he wasted no time galloping his knight through the fields of warm brown fur, his nervousness all but evaporating. Griffith saw something of himself reflected in the boy’s cautious behavior and had to smile.

“Can't make him put the damn thing down,” The General groaned with a hint of amusement. “He sleeps with it, brings it to the table, to his lessons. Everywhere. It infuriates Elaine to no end.” He guided them toward the sitting area a few feet from the playing child and took one end of the sofa. When Griffith strategically chose the chair adjacent, rather than the seat beside him the General eyed him with unveiled disappointment. Alois scooted further away from them toward the head of the bear and continued his game.

“It seems like a harmless fixation,” Griffith commented, trying to divert the General’s attention from him to the child. “He’s only a boy, after all.”

The General’s face lit up with appreciation. “I agree with you wholeheartedly! I’m sure he’ll grow out of it on his own. For now though I confess I’m indulging myself a bit at the expense of his poor mother’s sanity.”

“How so my Lord?”

“Not punishing him for it or taking it away, even though Elaine has asked me to do so many times.” He stroked his short graying beard for a moment. “It’s my hope that it will help turn him down the path to knighthood, to follow in my footsteps and those of his brothers.”

The old man went quiet and Griffith winced sympathetically; the General had lost four of his five sons in battle. Oscar, his second youngest, had fallen at Corsica not three months before; the very same battleground that had claimed the lives of his two elder brothers, and his maternal grandfather some twenty years before that. Noble custom required a fallen knight's armor to be displayed by his family for a full season after his death, and so stood Oscar’s at the back of the Keep’s grand dining hall, enshrined in bundles of evergreen and amaranth. Illuminated by a dozen perpetually burning candles, the armor loomed silently over every meal like an ominous hollow specter.  

In an effort to offer some comfort, Griffith smiled warmly at the old man and said, “I’m certain if I’m ever blessed with a son, I will feel the same way.” He was a bit startled when the General reached to take his hand in front of the child. Thankfully Alois hadn’t seemed to notice.

Something profound and affectionate shone in Roland’s eyes as he squeezed Griffith’s hand. “For men such as you and I the road to fatherhood is not always easily traveled, though I pray you will overcome the pitfalls so you might one day know the joy of holding a son in your arms.” He looked him straight in the eyes. “When you leave here, do so with the knowledge that you and your children will always be welcome guests in my lands whether I am alive to greet you or not.”

Ignoring Roland’s glaring assumption that he wasn’t interested in women _at all,_ Griffith forced a softened expression, his eyes filling with warmth and gratitude. His heart had never felt colder.

“That is my hope as well,” he bowed his head. “I cannot thank you enough for your hospitality and well wishes, my Lord General.”

Just then, in plain view of his son, Roland broke the unspoken rule of male etiquette and brought Griffith’s pale hand to his lips. Griffith’s nausea sprung back to life full-force as panic gripped him. The level of infatuation Roland had for him was becoming more than just a little alarming. They barely knew one another and yet he was kissing his body in front of his own son and extending offers of hospitality to children Griffith didn’t even have yet. He didn't know what the outcome of this inadvertent relationship was going to be, but one thing was certain: he would sooner die than send any son of his to stay anywhere _near_   Roland Vorhees.

His eyes darted then to Alois, who glanced up at them both without a trace of concern before resuming his play. He was cheerful for a quiet, sickly, boy and appeared comfortable around his father; all good signs the General wasn’t a pedophile, or, at the very least, was not abusing his _own_ son. Still, at the end of the day, he was a perverted, lecherous old man who bought sex from young men more than half his age and that was enough to warrant eternal caution.

The General patted Griffith’s hand then withdrew back to his own seat, something for which Griffith was incredibly grateful; so much so he had to force down the urge to sigh with relief.

Changing the subject slightly, he said, “Your son reminds me of myself as a boy.”

The General’s thick brows rose over his steely grey eyes. “A quiet lad too, were you? Never would have guessed that.” He reached out and pulled a strand of Griffith’s hair between this thumb and forefingers. “Things have certainly changed in that respect over the years haven't they?”

Griffith pulled back, removing himself and his hair politely from the General’s reach. Hands clasped on his lap he tried to calm his heart. Even in front of a child not old enough to understand what he was seeing, Griffith was incredibly incensed by the boldness inherent in Roland’s inappropriate contact. A dark voice whispered in his ear:

_As it is written, the hand that touches the King touches God and so shall it be lopped off swiftly and without quarter. Brother, you suffer this vile cretin for reasons beyond my comprehension. Why?_

Griffith was startled, not by the words, but by the painful resonance of the voice. This was not the soft slithering female voice he’d been plagued by until now, nor was it the buzzing voice of torment and riddles. This voice was old. Wise. Powerful. It held the promise of infinite knowledge, resonating from the black void of Griffith’s mind with all the violent oscillation of a howling winter storm.

With a corrective shake of his head he blinked then turned, his attention drawn by a soft whinnying sound from the boy on the floor. Alois seemed deep in thought, concentrating on navigating his knight over the treacherous mountain terrain presented by the bear’s stuffed head. Griffith smiled.

“Against whom does your knight ride, Young Master Alois? The armies of Chuder?”

The boy seemed startled to be spoken to, his body tensing. He shook his head no and continued playing.

“The Kushan Empire?”

Another shake.

Griffith made a thoughtful sound and smiled. “Ah. I see. Then, perhaps he rides against an army wholly unknown to us. An army of demons, elves, and dragons?”

The boy paused, considering this brilliantly fantastical option for a moment, before resolutely shaking his head yet again. “He rides against no army, Sir.”

“No?”

The boy stroked the nose of the ivory horse and his small mouth curved into an affectionate smile. “Cloud just likes to run.”

“Cloud is it? A fine name for a destrier,” Griffith laughed warmly. His head throbbed but he muscled through it. “Mine likes to run too, as it so happens.”

This, above all, made the boy look up. His eyes were like orbs of fluid emerald as they locked with Griffith’s. Voice filled with wonder, the boy gasped, “ _T_ _ruly,_  Sir?”

“Indeed, Young Master.”

“Your horse, Sir, does he…” Alois hesitated, as though unsure if a knight would reveal the information he sought, “...does he also... like apples, Sir?”

“More than anything.”

The boy's face lit up the room like a bonfire during the winter solstice.

“Perhaps--” Griffith continued, glancing at the General out the corner of his eye before lowering his voice secretively,”--with your father's permission, we might go feed him one, hmm?”

The boy’s eyes grew large as saucers and flew from Griffith to his father and back. “Your horse is _here,_ Sir? At Charcy?”

Griffith made a big show of nodding, even though it aggravated his headache. For some reason largely unknown to him, he felt driven to bring a smile to the face of this frail, withdrawn youngster, who so clearly idolized him. “A knight can’t very well leave his horse behind when he goes away, now can he?”

The boy didn’t even answer the question, flying instead to his father’s knee. Craning up at him excitedly he begged, “Oh could we father? Could we go and see Sir Griffin’s horse?”

The General peered with questioning eyes toward Griffith, who was smiling fondly at the young boy having fumbled his name. He gave Roland a nod; soft but insistent. With the exception of Rickert, he’d never felt so connected to a child’s happiness before. Something in this youngster spoke to him on an unmarked level of his subconscious and he was genuinely excited to see the smile that would no doubt stretch from ear to ear when they reached the paddock.

The General gave an indulgent sigh and, stroking the boy’s head of dark hair he said, “Yes, I think we could.”

 

____

“Nothing to be afraid of. He won’t hurt you.”

Griffith was leaning against the tall fence, crutches beside him as he held Lammergeier’s rope halter. Alois had run in circles around them all the way to the paddock, showing a level of excitement Roland said he seldom displayed. When they’d arrived however the child had been spooked back behind his father’s legs as the massive horse had come barreling full-tilt toward the fence. Griffith was the only person he willingly came in for without oats or apples as bribery. In truth the stallion was his closest comrade on the field. Never had he ridden a horse so responsive to his cues, so in-tune with him on every possible level. He was truly one of a kind and Griffith went to great lengths to see he had the best of everything; food, armor, medical aid. He spared no expense. After his “incident” with Guts the week before, Griffith hadn't been able to visit the stallion's paddock and he'd missed him. To Griffith's delight, the feeling seemed to be mutual.

“What is he called, Sir Griffin?”

Griffith had given up trying to correct the boy on the walk down and smiled at the misnomer.

“He's been given many names by my men over the years--” Some of which were less than appropriate for a child--“but the one I gave him is Lammergeier.”

The boy tried to repeat the name a few times, never getting it quite right. Griffith smiled and took his hand, helping him climb up onto the fence. The boy looked let down, like he’d failed an important task. Griffith patted his back.

“He doesn’t much care what you call him, especially if you give him one of these first.” Griffith pulled out one of the mottled green and red apples they had grabbed on their way down. He handed it to the boy, who looked at it with excitement.

“Might I really, Sir?’

“Of course you may. Here, hold it like this.” As Griffith laid the boy’s palm flat over top of his own and set the apple on it, he checked on the General out the corner of his eye. He was standing some feet away, just observing, a placid grin on his face and a fatherly warmth in his eyes.

“His mouth has hairs on it!” Alois giggled as the large horse flapped his dexterous lips and chuffed, trying to gain purchase on the apple bobbing about in the squirming child’s hand. “They tickle!”

Griffith’s smile was so immediate and so heartfelt that it reached the corners of his eyes, creasing them fondly. He really did love children; their innocent, pure view of the world was something truly special in his eyes. Carefully he removed his hand from beneath the boy's so Alois was feeding the apple all on his own. He stroked the horses neck slowly as he kept a watchful eye over the interaction. 

The horse blew and nickered as he finally grasped the slippery apple.

“He ate it in one bite! Did you see, Sir Griffin? Did you?”

Griffith nodded. “I certainly did. He’s got a big mouth.”

“Is _mine_ that big, Sir?” Alois questioned eagerly, opening his small mouth as wide as it could go and pulling on his cheeks.

With mock sincerity Griffith said, “Oh yes very nearly, Young Master. Truly impressive!”

Alois smiled up at him, pleased as a cat in a dairy and reached his hand out to pet the muscular crest on the stallion’s neck, mimicking Griffith’s hand movements carefully.

“Um...Sir? He has bumps under his fur,” The boy looked up at him with grave concern in his watery eyes. “Is he sick?”

Griffith smiled at the gravity of the boy’s concern. “No, no nothing like that. Those bumps are scars, not lesions.”

“Scars?” It took the boy a moment to piece things together. “You mean from battle?”

Griffith nodded and the boy’s eyes flashed from excitement to sadness. He made a small sympathetic sound and stroked the horse more gently.

“Do they hurt him, Sir?” His voice was tremulous and small.

Griffith shook his head. The boy was so endearing it was making his chest ache. “No, not any more.”

The boy stared blankly for a long while, stroking the stallion in silence. Finally, he turned to Griffith like he’d reached a conclusion. “Do you have them too, Sir Griffin? Battle scars, I mean.”

A pause filled the conversation before Griffith sighed. He could see the path this discussion was taking and wasn’t sure if it was wise to continue. Battle wounds didn’t seem an appropriate topic for a six year old and he eyed the General, looking for input. The older man gave him a knowing look. He’d guessed the destination as well from the looks of his face, though he didn’t appear perturbed by it. Griffith questioned him with his eyes, seeking clarity and the General gave a nod. Amazed, but sure a father knew what was best for his son, Griffith finally looked back to Alois and nodded his head. “Yes, Young Master, I do.”

“Really? Might I see them please?”

The General was already nodding his permission when Griffith glanced his way. He sighed with good-natured resignation and helped the young boy off the fence. Griffith indeed had many scars, but not all of them were easily accessible in his current state of dress and some were inappropriately located. The biggest scar he had was from a considerably deep slash he’d taken to the upper portion of his right buttock. It was certainly impressive in terms of battle wounds, but it just wasn’t appropriate to show a child. He settled for just his arms.

“Alright,” he said, “but just a few.”

Baring his well-toned forearms he held the left one out to the boy. There were numerous nicks and slashes in all sorts of places.

“This one is very pink,” Alois commented, face quirked in concentration as he gently touched the scar in question. Griffith was taken aback by the sudden touching, but let him continue out of sheer fascination with the young boy’s unabashedly inquisitive nature.

“Yes. That one just recently healed.”

When the child looked confused, Griffith explained further. “Here let me show you.” He turned his arm, revealing a messy scar where an enemy lance had pierced his ageing leather vambraces and just about dislocated his elbow. He smiled at the boy. “See this one? It’s a few years older than you are.”

Alois touched the old scar and the new scar at the same time, tracing them with his finger tips.

“See the differences there in color and texture?”

The boy’s face looked grim, yet fascinated as he gave a slow nod. "The pink one is like wax, but not this one."

“Would you like to see my other arm? I have more.”

Alois politely shook his head no, his mood more subdued now that he’d seen and touched the violent remnants of distant battles. Griffith wondered what was going through the boy’s head as he lowered his sleeve.

With determination, Alois hopped up on the fence once more and stroked Lammergeier’s mane.

“You’re a very brave horse,” the boy whispered into the animal’s neck and a smile warmed Griffith's expression.

Producing an heir to his future throne wasn’t something he thought about often, but so far that day the notion had nagged at him several times and this time he finally gave in. He’d more or less settled on making the dear Princess Charlotte his wife. With the girl’s current level of infatuation with him, he knew getting her pregnant once they’d wed wasn’t going to be all that difficult. He could probably have her before they were married if he wanted; no doubt she’d crumble like an autumn leaf with the barest hint of persuasion. Fortunately for Charlotte, Griffith was neither a scoundrel who went around deflowering unwed maidens, nor was he interested in her body outside its use as a political tool and ability to produce him an heir.

With Guts now in his romantic field of view, a kink had been thrown into Griffith’s otherwise flawless plan. He still intended to marry the Princess, but he wasn’t going to give Guts up either. He refused to settle for anything less than exactly what he wanted and this scenario would be no exception. Unfortunately it meant he would have to convince Guts to accept a permanent role as his “mistress”, so to speak. He wasn’t worried about getting Charlotte to accept such an arrangement; he had every reason to believe she would go along with whatever desire that struck his fancy, so long as she could remain at his side. Guts was going to be the true challenge in that regard. With a short exhale, Griffith set the thought aside and patted Alois on the back.

The child turned, his face scrunched like he was holding back a question he desperately wanted to ask.

“Something the matter?” Griffith inquired gently.

“Well Sir...I...I was just wondering if, maybe I could ride him?”

Griffith didn't reply and Alois pressed on, defending his request with conviction. “I don't fall off my pony anymore, I could handle him Sir. I’ve been practicing!”

Griffith drew back a little. “I’m sure you have. This pony you don’t fall off of anymore, what’s his name?”

The boy smiled, pleased as punch a real knight wanted to know more about the chubby grey pony that brought him so much joy. “Ned, Sir.”

“Ned the pony,” Griffith looked up, appraising it. “A wonderful name. And, is he tall?”

Alois’ shoulders slumped. “Well...Ned’s not as tall as Lamen--Larmer...uh...a-as your horse, Sir. But he’s the tallest pony out of them all!” His small chest puffed out as far as it could. “Tallest in the world even!”

Griffith chuckled and made a show of nodding, as though considering this information critically. “I’ll just bet he is, but I still think my horse is a bit too tall for you. Even if you’re very careful you could fall off and it’s a _long_ way to fall. Perhaps another day.”

“Tomorrow then? I’ll grow for sure tonight, I know I will, Sir.  _Please?_ ”

The boy really didn’t seem to want to give up.

“A ride by yourself would be too dangerous, _ev_ _en_ if you grew a little, but how about this: when Captain Guts returns from his mission, he can take you out for a ride. He won’t let you fall off he’s a very skilled rider. Does that sound like an agreeable compromise?” Griffith smirked at his own private innuendo. Guts was a _very_ good rider indeed.

The boy nodded so vigorously his head looked like it was barely attached.

Griffith ruffled his hair. “Very good. A deal then?” He offered him a formal handshake.

The boy took it this time and shook it stoically. “A deal.”

“Excellent, now if you--”

“ _There you are!”_

A thin man with a pinched face and upturned nose was trotting down the hill toward them at a brisk, but appropriate, speed. He sounded positively indignant.

“Young Master Alois you _must_ return to your lessons _this instant!_ How dare you run off! _”_

The boy squeaked and, to Griffith’s bewilderment, ducked behind _his_ legs this time. How quickly children adapted.

The General stepped forward now, hand raised. “Master Elias it’s quite alright. I took him out after luncheon with every intent on returning him to you, I just lost track of the sun.”

The man called Elias bowed his head, flustered as though he hadn’t seen the General there.

“Of course, my Lord General. My apologies! Heavens, I didn't’ realize _you_ were the one--”

“Elias, my old friend, it’s alright.” Roland approached his son, still clinging to Griffith’s leg, and gave him a pat on the head. “You run along with Master Elias now.”

“But father I--!”

“Ah ah no arguing or you won’t be getting that ride later.”

“But you can’t _do that!_ Sir Griffin and I shook on it as men we made a deal!” The boy pleaded up at Griffith hoping he would defend him, “Didn’t we, Sir Griffin?”

Griffith raised a hand and stepped back, carefully dislodging the boy’s grip. “We did Young Master, but I’m afraid your father is the highest ranked officer here. Even I cannot oppose his wishes so you best do as he says.”

The boy looked for all the world like a withered flower, his small face and frail body sagging under the knowledge that not even his new hero could get him out of his lessons.

“Al _right_...”

The tutor took the boy gently by the hand and lead him back up the hill and around the bend, Alois dragging his feet the entire way.

Roland gave a nostalgic chuckle and leaned back against the fence. Staring up at the clouds he said, “I can’t say I blame him. I’d have rather stayed out here too at his age.”

“I know the feeling.”

Roland cocked a brow. “Really, Griffith? You strike me as one who’d have had your nose in a book even when it was sunny outside.”

Griffith leaned on the fence with crossed arms, watching his horse graze with idle affection. “Once I got a bit older, that certainly became the case, but when I was Alois’ age it was all they could do to get me inside at night.”

“Your parents?”

“Oh. No,” He turned to the General with an earnest look, “The sisters of the state ward house.”

Roland sobered. “I didn’t know you were a ward of the state. At _Allies_ age?”

“Younger I think,” Griffith sighed nonchalantly. He had no regrets nor did he begrudge the life fate had given him, even if it had started off a bit on the unfortunate side.

“How old?”

Griffith looked up a moment. “My mother died when I was very young, so young I hardly remember her. I was taken to the ward house shortly after. I’m still not certain how old I am.”

The General moved closer, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Was it as bad in the ward house as they say? Did you suffer?”

Griffith smiled wryly. “I can’t speak much to that I’m afraid, it was a long time ago and I wasn’t there for very long.”

Roland cocked a brow. “You were adopted then?”

“I ran away.”

The General’s face was a swimming sea of shock and disbelief. “You mean to tell me you’ve been on your own since you were my son’s age?”

Griffith turned and put a brief hand on the old man’s cheek, hoping to turn his sympathy into monetary gain if at all possible. “Is that so hard to believe, Roland?”  

“Well I suppose not since you’re standing in front of me now and doing _quite_ well for yourself, but it must have been a rotten experience all the same.”

“Oh…” Griffith drew into himself for a fraction of a second, the dark place inside welling up so close to the surface he could feel it like a slippery eel against his consciousness, “it was.”

_But you had us to take care of you, Dear One. To guide you. Teach you. Help quiet your screams..._

Griffith offered no further details and, thankfully, Roland asked for none. The old man just squeezed his hand, not letting go. Griffith could feel the affection and care in that calloused old hand and it made his heart pang. He hated Guts for leaving him, but angry or not he could not deny how much he wanted to hold him in his arms.

For a long while both Griffith and the General stared out at the river of rustling grass, lost in thought and silence. Finally The General patted his hand and took a step back.

“I was intending to take you into that stable and ravish you,” He laughed sheepishly, “but I feel given the turn of our conversation that might be a touch inappropriate.”

He reached into his pocket and brought out a small red silk bag. Griffith eyed it as it was placed in his hand. The bag was weighty for its size and contained something hard; stone or glass.

“I meant to give that to you earlier and with a bit more gusto, but my son insisted he join me on my visit.”

Griffith opened the bag and gasped when he saw the familiar glint of green glass.

“I’m certain my wife lost our other bottle while out on some romp with a stable hand, though she denies it. When I ordered more I got one for you as well.”

Griffith’s mouth dropped a little. It wasn’t the contents of the bag that surprised him, it was the amount of money Roland had spent on it. The special oil was fabricated with great difficulty from a giant creature of the sea Griffith had only read about, and then it had to be trekked inland over a hazardous desert and imported from a dealer far over the mountains.

“You didn’t need to do this. This is too much Roland, I can’t accept it.”

The General scoffed. “Nonsense, don’t even think about trying to give it back! I know it’s just as pleasant to use alone as it is with a partner and I can’t be with you all the time. What else are you going to do cooped up in that room, eh? _Read?_ ”

Griffith carefully controlled his face, not wanting to give anything away about the use he’d find for such a generous gift. “Roland...I’m not sure what to say.”

“Start with ‘thank you’ and i’m sure the rest will come.”

Griffith let a small smile creep forward over his face. He bowed his head and put the silk bag into a leather pouch at his waist. “Thank you, I appreciate the gift, and your concern.”

Looking carefully over his shoulder to see if anyone was watching, the General took Griffith by the hand and drew him close, their bodies pressed tight.

“Roland! Not _here_ we--”

He didn’t get a chance to finish as the General’s tongue forced its way into his mouth. He had no choice but to go along with it, this was the ruse he’d created for his own benefit after all. He gasped softly, still trying to play coy. He pretended it was Guts being so bold with him, Guts who held him tight and kissed him so passionately.

If he’d been facing the other way, Griffith might have seen the _real_ Guts approaching down the hill, might have been able to push the General away in time to avoid Guts seeing something he didn’t need to. Unfortunately for Griffith though, lady luck was not on his side. In fact, she wasn’t even in Midland that time of year.

When the General finally drew back and Griffith opened his eyes the flash of a familiar red cloak and gleaming sword was rounding the corner of the Keep at a rapid pace. Griffith gasped, his heart sinking to the pit of his stomach faster than a bar of gold to the ocean floor. What had he done?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _As it is written, the hand that touches the King touches God and so shall it be lopped off swiftly and without quarter. Brother, NANI THE FUCK? you out here suffering dusty ass fools like a punk ass little BITCH?!_


	18. Ghost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for being patient. This chapter is a lynchpin for alot of stuff and I needed a few extra days to tweak it.
> 
> Next chapter coming June 21st :)
> 
> 2019/06/21 13:24--Just a heads up the chapter will be out sometime between today and Saturday night, I'll give a more approximate time later on. Thanks folks <3
> 
> 2019/06/22 15:52-- Putting the last touches on things, chapter 19 will be up in a few hours.

* * *

It was like coming upon a mountain of sunrippened corpses, half obscured by a flurry of carrion birds. Just a heap of sour meat until you accidentally looked too close, caught sight of something familiar in the gore: an ear, a jaw, a hand. Your brain can't protect you after that. To Guts’ self-preserving eyes, the two people at the bottom of the long hill blended into one disturbing organism. From the difference in height his brain told him it was a man and a woman, but deep down that didn’t seem right. Against his better judgement Guts tilted his head and looked harder.

From this angle he could tell that they were kissing, the man caressing the woman. His thick hands dove into the shining strands of her silky light hair, setting if free from the black ribbon constricting it at the nape of her neck. When the curled waves spilled loose like foaming water down the waterfall of her shoulders a searing pain sliced into Guts’ heart. He'd looked too long, found the familiar. In the span of a few seconds Guts went from perplexed and curious to angry and hurt. It wasn’t a woman being pressed against the fence. It was Griffith.

Guts tried to find an outlet for the violent surge of emotion that welled up inside him. Something. _Anything!_ But he was rooted like a statue, watching with helpless disbelief as another man touched and kissed the only person in the world giving him a reason to stay in it. Every single one of his instincts told Guts to charge down that hill and shove his sword into the perverted sack of shit who’d dared to lay his filthy hands on Griffith. His responsibility to the Hawks was the only thing holding him back. He knew what would happen if he attacked a nobleman while riding under Griffith’s banner.

Judeau and Casca and Rickert flashed before him. In the eye of the storm things were bright and calm, but without Griffith to anchor them down the destructive force of his ambition would rip them apart like a hurricane.Even restrained by such good intentions, an impotent rage continued to burn through Guts’ veins. His limbs shook with restraint and he clenched his teeth in a bitter snarl, jerking his head away. He wanted to stay, to make sure Griffith was alright, but his eyes stung, his heart hurt and he felt sick to his stomach. He couldn’t stand it any longer. Shaking his head and setting his shoulders in a stiff hunch, he stomped off. If he'd stayed just a few more seconds he might have seen Griffith turn his head in surprise, his eyes filled with remorse.

 

As Guts trudged, angry and defeated back to the Keep, his mind kept passing over what he’d seen. To some eyes it might have seemed Griffith was enjoying the attention, encouraging it even, but Guts knew him too well not to see the signs of his discomfort. The evidence was subtle, but it was still there and he picked out more each time he ran it through his mind; the tension in Griffith’s arm and shoulder around the General’s neck, the angle of his feet pointing outward as though looking for an escape, the stiff movement in his ordinarily graceful hand as he stroked the old man’s bearded cheek. They gave Guts a selfish sense of relief and, by the time he made it to the servants kitchen, he was wholeheartedly convinced this was just another of Griffith’s “business transactions”. This knowledge did absolutely nothing for his pain, but he savoured the bittersweet sense of vindication it gave him nonetheless. Griffith’s love hadn’t cost _him_ a damn thing, except perhaps his soul. It had already been broken beyond repair by the time Griffith had shown up in his life so Guts hadn't given two cold shits about him taking it. Looking back on it and all that Griffith had given him in exchange, he'd gotten the better end of the deal by far.

Lost in his thoughts, Guts bumped into a maid coming around the corner, accidentally knocking her and her large basket to the ground.

“Hey, watch it!” she cried. Guts shook his head, almost shouting back, but then noticed the apples rolling all over the floor.

“Oh! Shit I’m sorry miss...uh--,”

“It’s Ruth,” The young woman shot irritably, too busy scooping apples into her apron to look at him.

“Right,” Guts said awkwardly as he knelt down to help. Her short tone suggested she was annoyed at him fishing for her name, though Guts hadn’t even wanted it in the first place, he'd just been gathering his thoughts. When the young woman finally did look up at him, she first did a double take then yipped in surprise, a look of recognition blooming red across her cheeks. She scrambled to her feet, muttered a quick thank you, then scurried down the hall, skirt fluttering around her ankles like a flock of frantic doves.

Dazed by how quickly that interchange had taken him from being depressed to absolutely bewildered, Guts stared at the door she’d run through, scratching the back of his head.

“I’ll never understand women.”

 

In the servants kitchen the mid day meal had already finished. The large room was mostly empty, though a scant few people still remained at the long table. Their conversations ceased as Guts walked past which was unnerving but not unusual. Although he'd grabbed food in the servants kitchen every morning since they arrived nearly six weeks ago, many of the servants still hadn't gotten used to seeing him around. He awkwardly nodded to the few giving him odd looks before turning his attention to the meager meal remnants left on the wooden trenchers: a sizeable chunk of coarse brown bread and a half dozen or so boiled eggs, still in their shells. He opened the grub sack on his belt and hastily shoved it all inside.

Once outside the fort gates Guts moved swiftly on foot toward the ring of oak and beech that densely wreathed the old battleground. The trees there had been growing in the blood-soaked earth for hundreds of years, absorbing the horror of those that had died there. It was no surprise the locals thought it was haunted.

He was just beyond the slope of the southern field, the Keep fading back, when he thought he heard his name on the wind. He paused a moment to listen, though not very hard. Even if someone _were_ calling him, he didn’t want to talk.

 

As the green forest colors around him started to dim to shades of lilac and grey, Guts took out his flint and struck it with practiced precision against the blade of his sword. A few careful breaths later he had a bright yellow flame growing in the center of his carefully stacked fire. Bright orange flames soon licked up the dry wood, pushing back the encroaching darkness and filling the small hollow with warmth. The oak tree Guts chose to camp under was so massive its gigantic snarl of roots had crumbled the hill side and, with the aid of time, erosion had carved out a shallow alcove. Semi enclosed on three sides it protected his fire from the worst of the wind and would help conceal his camp from unwanted visitors.

With a fire well established, Guts settled on his cloak against the packed dirt wall and took out the eggs. One by one he peeled them, discarding the shells in the fire. He only managed to eat three before his appetite petered out. Despite spending all afternoon collecting dry deadfall he just wasn't hungry.

"Man, how long has it been since I've done this?" Guts wondered aloud with a weary sigh. His high rank in Griffith's forces entitled him to his own tent, so he rarely, if ever, camped rough anymore; a fact he now found regrettable. There was something about being under the stars, building his own fire, taking in the sounds of the forest that neither acknowledged nor cared about his presence, that Guts found soothing. It brought him back to his earliest days with the Hawks, when he kept largely to himself just outside the main encampment. Resting his head back Guts exhaled slowly through his nose. Things had been so much simpler then.

His mind started to wander as he stared through the dense canopy of oak roots, but the sound of something large and slow approaching through the trees drew his full attention. He listened carefully, his head swiveling like an owl as he tried to determine which direction it was coming from. The sound grew closer and Guts rolled up into a crouched position, hand on the hilt of his dagger. If it was a stag or some other forest herbivore it would have smelled his fire by now and run. The lack of fear in whatever was coming meant it was most likely a wild boar or a brown bear. Both put on weight for winter during the end of summer and both, he knew, would be able to smell his eggs and bread a mile off. He berated himself for not eating it all.

His eyes shifted nervously, combing the dim woods for any signs of movement. His fire was making it difficult to see outside its small, bright, circle and Guts thought briefly about putting it out so his eyes could adjust to the dark. An owl shrieked and Guts started thinking about the local legends he'd heard about these woods. Stories about tall long-armed creatures with the heads of animals and bodies of men, shrieking banshees that could steal your soul if you looked in their eyes and ghostly apparitions moving through the trees as they hunted for body parts they'd lost in battle. Guts wasn't one who believed in superstitious nonsense, but as the wind picked up, howling through the alcove, he felt his spine tingle with dread.

His fire suddenly grew dim, prompting Guts to throw another branch on it. It took him a minute to realize it hadn't yet caught fire. He drew his attention from the swirling grey light around him to the fire and his blood ran cold: The log was sitting in the air three inches from the frozen flames.

Everything was still. Insects on the ground, leaves on the wind. Everything. A grey mist swirled around him and he gasped.

_'...Souls...'_

Guts jerked toward the voice, quickly tugging the dagger from its sheath.

"Who's there?!"

He heard it again, only now there were dozens of voices, overlapping, whispering from every nook and crag and branch.

_'...souls...'_

_'...fresh offerings...'_

_'...Guts…'_

_'...blood pours…'_

_'...falcon of...'_

Ice filled his veins when he heard his name. "What do you want?!" He cried, brandishing his dagger all around him at the frozen grey world. The voices didn't respond, only continued their disturbing chants.

_'...sacred offering…'_

_'...souls…'_

_'...give us…'_

_'...Guts…'_

_'...red sun…'_

"Shut up!" he yelled, reaching for his sword even though swinging it in such a closed environment wouldn't be much help.

_'...holy feast…'_

_'...souls…'_

_'...sacrifice…'_

A large branch snapped as the curtain of saplings and low hanging branches crashed and shook. Just as Guts started to let loose a scream of expectant horror, out poked the disarmingly dopey face of Buck; the sturdy little rouncy they’d brought with them to the Keep.

Guts stopped mid scream and blinked rapidly, his breath coming in laborious gasps. Frantically he looked around, but nothing was out of place. The log he'd seen hovering in mid air crackled merrily in the firepit, the ants and millipedes and beetles hurried about their business like nothing had happened. The color was back all around him, the sickly grey of...whatever that was, completely gone. Snapping and squashing his way through the foliage, the horse and his rider emerged.

“No need to shout."

Guts blinked rapidly in disbelief as Griffith waved a dismissive hand at him--or rather, at his quaking dagger.

"It's only me."

Griffith was positioned sideways on Buck bareback, his hips canted at an angle, both his hands on the reins. His position on the horse looked precarious, but it was actually pretty ingenious. By leaning forward he had shifted the majority of his body weight over the horses front end, rather than the back, which caused less bouncing. His legs were both slung at an angle over the left shoulder of the horse. His right knee and thigh helped him grip the withers, his left thigh and calf hugging the side of the horse for stability and to issue commands.

Buck mouthed at the bit as he snuffled after the crushed green leaves under his hooves. Griffith stroked the geldings neck and flashed Guts a concerned smile. It played over the corners of his lips and eyes, capturing the light beautifully.

"Are you alright? You were shouting quite a bit." He glanced around as though looking for someone. "Nightmare?"

Guts shook his head, bewildered, his skin damp with sweat. “ _Griffith?_ ”

“My apologies, I tried to leave to find you sooner, but I was…detained.” His explanation could have been delivered in front of any fountain, any tavern, any crossroads in Midland and wouldn’t have seemed odd or out of place and yet, out in the dark woods, it seemed...off. The gold embroidery on Griffith’s white dinner ensemble winked and sparkled, the orange fire casting him in a beautiful, almost surreal, light. Guts bit down on his tongue until it hurt. This was all so strange he had to be sure he hadn’t fallen asleep.

He had so many questions, so many things he wanted to say, but his concern for Griffith’s well being pushed them all aside. With an angry sigh Guts sheathed his dagger and got up to hold Buck steady.

“What are you _doing_ out here, Griffith?" he spat even as he held out his hand to help him slide to the ground.

"I came to talk."

“You're a lunatic," He chastised, helping Griffith over to the fire. He'd either lost his crutches along the way or left them at the Keep. "You're nearly healed up and you go risking a new injury just to come after _me?_ How did you manage to get on him like that in the first place?”

When Griffith took a breath to process a response to all of that, Guts visibly changed the subject with a brisk headshake. “Wait, no nevermind that. First, how did you know where I was?”

Griffith grew quiet. “I was in the suite after--" he turned his head. "I...saw you leave. Both times."

“What?”

A tilt of Griffith’s head flashed a look of remorse that cut into Guts' resolve. “Down by the paddock. I saw you round the corner when Roland and I--”

“Don’t,” Guts pleaded, head jerking as a flashback sprung upon him out of the fray. In the baths their first night, Griffith had gotten drunk on wine and had slipped up, mentioning the name--

 _“Roland,”_ Guts repeated with new understanding. It was a statement rather than a question. Guts wasn’t ever going to be on a first name basis with the Midland brass so while he was sure someone had told him the General's  name at some point, it had quite clearly left nothing but remnants in his brain as it hurried out his other ear. All at once the flood gates released and individual events started flying at him; The special supply order for their outstanding performance on the field; Griffith’s odd reaction to the Vorhees’ letters; The number of times he’d run into the General near Griffith’s chambers as he was returning from a morning of training or working the horses. The events hadn’t been significant enough to warrant real notice on their own but together they formed a deeply unsettling picture. The one memory that stuck out to Guts the most out of all the others was the very same one he hadn’t been able to shake that morning.

 _“The amount of fever in that ankle is the result of irritation over a prolonged period of time,_ not _a single instance,”_ The doctor had said. And now Guts knew how he’d been "aggravating" it. How had he not seen this sooner? Even after learning Griffith's less than palatable tactics for gathering dangerous intel and easy coin, his brain _still_ hadn’t put the pieces together.

Guts knelt and wrapped his arms around Griffith. Cheek pressed against his embroidered dinner jacket he drew in a slow deep breath. Griffith smelled wonderful; like cloves and lemon and sweat dampened silk. It was so familiar. So calming.

“I could have killed him,” Guts said, his eyes staring blankly into the flickering shadows. The tension in his shoulders dissipated as Griffith hugged him back. "I _wanted_ to kill him."

The wind sent a shudder through the trees, a roll of thunder riding in from miles away. A silence settled in its wake, the damp warmth of the alcove and Griffiths body the only things in Guts' focus.

“I’m sorry you had to see that,” Griffith said penitently, taking a shallow breath, "but Roland and I have a business arrangement. He has something I want and I have something he wants. There’s nothing more to it than that."

Guts flinched at the matter of fact way he delivered this explanation.

So much time passed in silence Griffith nudged him toward a conversation.

“Come on," he encouraged gently, "just talk to me."

Guts let out a frustrated growl and Griffith pushed him away by the shoulders. "I know you have something to say so out with it. You know I can handle--"

“Has he fucked you yet!?"

Griffith had clearly not been expecting such a loud, brutally-forward question and looked a bit flustered. “I wouldn’t lay it out in such vulgar terms, but yes, he has.”

Guts audibly flinched in disgust and Griffith laughed quietly to himself. When Guts shot him a hurt look Griffith rolled his eyes up to the forest canopy above.

“What? Would it somehow change something if I hadn't?"

Guts pulled away further, back stiff. “No it’s not that it’s--How can you just _admit it_ like that? Like it’s nothing.”

Griffith gave a small scoff of incredulity. “My sins have been laid out in front of you. What benefit would there be in lying now?”

Guts turned his face toward the fire. Arms crossed he growled in frustration. "I don’t know Griffith, I just don’t like the idea.”

A cool hand touched his brow and Guts turned. Griffith was calm and giving him an apologetic look. “I'm aware of that. What can I do to make this more comfortable for you?”

Guts curled in on his left shoulder and stared down as his fist. He was jealous, but of course he knew he wouldn’t ever have Griffith entirely to himself. Unable to say what he really thought and felt, he said nothing, mouth set in a hard line.

Griffith peered at him curiously, as though he’d been expecting another quick, loud, response, but hadn't gotten it. Guts looked down and Griffith took his face in his hands. They were smooth and cool against Guts' flushed cheeks. When he finally found the courage to look up he fell into Griffith's eyes; pools of endless blue reaching into his soul to ease his pain and fear.

"You're the only person I love. That will never change. Not in this lifetime. Not in a thousand lifetimes.”

Though these words gave him comfort, when Griffith lowered his mouth to kiss him, Guts put his hand up. Confusion and something loathsome flashed over Griffith's face before it settled to guilt-ridden understanding.

“I’m sorry,” Guts said, “I know it shouldn’t matter who you’ve kissed but he--Griffith I _just_ watched him kiss you and it feels...strange. Like... _I’m_ kissing him, I just...” Guts shuddered with revulsion.

Griffith tensed, but kept a fairly positive expression. “I...suppose I can understand that.”

Carefully, he leaned forward and removed his jacket. Guts stared. Even when doing something mundane, he was like a moving piece of art. Guts longed to reach out and touch him.

Griffith settled back against the dirt wall, arm outstretched comfortably on his raised knee. He let his head fall forward with a long, contemplative sigh.

The wind was cool and the hollow they were in was damp, despite the heat they’d had that day. Griffth pulled his good leg in closer to his body as the two of them sat in silence. He looked uncomfortable.

“That shirt’s too thin,” Guts commented when he noticed Griffith shivering. "You should put your jacket back on."

“I’m fine,” Griffith replied sharply. “If this gets stained I can have a new one outfitted within a day or two, but a new dinner coat could take months.” He indicated the folded jacket with a nod of his head.

Guts couldn't understand such foolish "logic", but he knew Griffith was stubborn and there was no sense arguing with him. He tossed another piece of wood on the fire, sending a cloud of sparks into the air.

Buck jerked his head up with a frightened nicker, flicking his ears rapidly. Guts made nonsense sounds of comfort to reassure him and the horse blew softly. He lowered his head again, continuing to strip the fresh leaves and bark off the saplings he’d trampled.

Griffith rubbed his arms slowly, still shivering even with the added wood and Guts decided he could no longer be left to his own devices. He grabbed Griffith’s shoulder.

“Get over here you’re going to catch a cold.” He gave him an insistent look and Griffith, whose teeth were starting to chatter from the damp setting into his clothes, begrudgingly obliged.

“And put your damn coat on. You can lean on me. I’m clean,” he looked down at his grubby shirt then quickly added, “...for the most part.”

Griffith poorly stifled his amusement and nodded his head. “Alright. You win,” he complied with a teasing grin.

At this the warmth, love, and overwhelming respect Guts held for Griffith finally returned, ousting the last clinging remnants of fruitless jealousy. With Griffith nestled back against him, Guts pulled the tattered red ends of his cloak around them both, leaving only their heads and feet out.

“Wait, don't get comfortable just yet," Guts laughed, "You have stuff in your hair."

Carefully he pulled out the various twigs and leaves that had lodged in Griffith's hair as he and Buck picked their way to him through the dense forest. Several long strands of white were pulled free with them and fluttered around the neck of his jacket. Guts moved it off his shoulders a bit, nuzzling against his jaw; a comfort seeking gesture that nonetheless made Griffith shiver against him.

“I really hate these things,” Guts frowned, tugging on the silk neck tie that kept the cravat and high collar of Griffith’s shirt held up under his chin.

Griffith laughed suggestively. "I've noticed." His tone betrayed a cautious optimism and eagerness to continue that made Guts smile. Guts unwound the layers of silk diligently, kissing first behind his ear, then down the underside of his jaw as he exposed the pale flesh, inch by inch, kiss by kiss.

“I don’t...want you to sleep with other men,” Guts declared softly as he kissed the back of Griffith’s neck. " _Or_ women _."_

Griffith hesitated. “Guts, we--"

“Let me _finish!"_

Griffith stiffened. "Forgive me, please continue."

“ _But,_ " Guts continued, "when you do...I want to know about it.”

Griffith flinched. “Why?"

Guts groaned, "I don’t _really_ want to know, but finding out the hard way about you and--and--" he couldn't bring himself to say the name,  "--it hurt, Griffith. It hurt a lot. I need to toughen that part of me if I'm going to stay at your side and I can’t do that if you protect me from the truth.”

Griffith looked over his shoulder slowly, his focus shifting suggestively from Guts' eyes to his lips. A commanding aura radiated from his gaze and Guts blushed a shade close to the color of his cloak. Griffith reached back, gently guiding Guts around into a kiss.

Reaffirming what he’d said earlier. “You're mine,” he whispered posessively. His tone warming he finished with, “and I'm yours. Always.”

This heartfelt avowal triggered a feeling of wonder and euphoria in Guts that he hadn’t been expecting. He dipped his head submissively to the side so Griffith could claim another kiss, hand moving to hold him by the hips. They kissed and touched one another late into the night, cementing the new level of understanding between them with untarnished intimacy that needed no conclusion.

 

Griffith nodded off to sleep first, but Guts forced himself to stay awake. He'd slept rough  thousands of times, braving the night and elements, but for the very first time, he wasn't facing it alone and he wanted to savor that feeling as long as he could.

Just as he was slipping into a dream, Guts was awoken by the sudden crashing of hundreds of branches and Buck whinnying in panic. He thought a storm had landed it was so loud, so violent.

Then he heard a voice that startled him half to death.

"Well well well boys," the small, unfamiliar voice commented from somewhere behind them. The crashing stilled, a murmur of voices rippling through the trees in a language Guts couldn't understand. Buck suddenly squealed in terror as a massive hand grabbed his hind legs. They snapped with a horrible sound as he was jerked violently up into the dark canopy of leaves and shadows. Something massive rumbled with childlike glee followed by a sickening, wet, crunch that put an end to the horses pitiful screaming.

 _"~Looks like weee found him~!"_ The first voice sung, delighted. A chorus of woops and cheers was accompanied by deep foreboding laughter that hinted at dark things to come.

"We need to move!" Griffith ordered, voice filled with controlled panic. Guts was stunned in place for a moment, jerking to action when Griffith shouted, " _Now!_ "

They scrambled, trying to get up out of the tangled cloak, but it tightened around them both, holding them like some massive red snake. Terrified, Guts struggled to get a hand on his dagger. Straining, he tried to bend his wrist, extending a finger. He could almost--

"Naughty naughty," The voice tsked and Guts cried out, jerking his head toward the voice. Two glittering eyes peered down through the gnarled roots at him as a blackened hand descended. It was too long to belong to a human, the skin blackened and peeling. It waggled at him like a mother scolding a child.

Guts and Griffith tried to wriggle away out of its reach, but the arm paid no attention. It plunged into the cloak opening--which was now just a small gap around each of their necks--and into Griffith's shirt.

 _"No!"_  Griffith cried desperately, and Guts had a brief moment to wonder why until he saw the hand draw out Griffith's prized possession like a heron snagging a fish from a stream.

The voice just giggled, jerking the behelit violently to snap the leather cord when it caught under Griffith's jaw.

Griffith hollered briefly with pain then went still. Guts shook him as best he could.

"Griffith? _Griffith!?"_

Paying no mind to the anguished panic of the men he'd caught, the creature brought the behelit to his eyes, inspecting it with reverent delight, "What...oh _what_ do we have here?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to the memory of Buck, the best doggo. May he git rekt in pieces.


	19. Countermeasures

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for waiting guys. The story will be coming to an end in the next few chapters and there's quite a few loose ends to tie up. I'm moving update day to every other Sunday for the remaining chapters, it will just work better for me. I hope that's alright :)  
> See you Sunday July 7th!
> 
> PS: I've drawn one of my favorite scenes from the story so far ;) It's SFW, you can see it [**on my instagram**](https://www.instagram.com/p/BywGVPSHxaD/?utm_source=ig_web_options_share_sheet), or the full versions (color and monochrome) [**on my DA account.**](https://www.deviantart.com/kirin-riki/art/Guts-and-Griffith-801888940)

Distorted conversations slowly spiraled Griffith back to reality as he blearily opened his eyes. The stench of offal and raw meat immediately assaulted his senses. It was so thick in the air it coated the back of his tongue and made him want to retch. Where was it coming from? He tried to cover his nose, but his arms weren’t responding. Still drifting on the tail end of sleep he assumed they had just gone numb. Groaning, he wriggled, twisting his wrists and legs to try and wake them up. Panic set in as he realized they were bound together behind his back.

Flashes of the night before--a night he thought he’d dreamed--filled his head; Bucks dying shrieks of terror ringing in his ears. Frantically he craned his neck looking for Guts. Lying on his side offered him a very limited vantage, but he could just make out his boots at the edge of his vision. To the screaming protest of his body he shifted a few inches so he could see better.

Guts was bound sitting against a tree trunk, his ankles and wrists tied. The side of his head glistened with sticky, dried blood and his face was bruised and swollen. His clothing was torn in a few places, his trousers were in a particularly sad state. Griffith's heart ached for him, but he had to be a commander, not a lover, and step back from his emotions to critically assess their situation. Sentiment would do them no good if they were dead.

His vision sharpened by the adrenaline surging through him, Griffith took in his surroundings as best he could. Dense hardwood trees ringed the clearing. They were in the same forest as before, but not the same location. The tree trunks were embedded in a thick mat of brush and dead fall that would have reached Griffith's waist. The heat in the air suggested it was mid afternoon, but under such thick cover it was hard to know for sure. The interlocked crowns of the massive trees extended so high and thick over top of the clearing that only scant patches of light made it to the ground, leaving the rest of the forest floor bathed in shadow. Griffith saw flashes of white in some of the patches, mostly at the edge of the camp; cleanly gnawed bones, animal and human alike.

Panic renewed, Griffith looked down, past his ruined white dinner coat and feet and landed on a bizarre group of men gathered around the nearby fire; one was huge, dark and beastly, so hairy he looked like he had fur, another resembled a dead tree, his skin paper-thin and yellowed, his clothes hanging off his thin frame, but it was the third man that drew the most attention. He was the shortest in the group, though between the two gigantic men, "short" was a relative term; the blonde fellow was easily as tall as Griffith was himself. He was modestly handsome with fine, well-bred features and long blonde hair flowing freely around his shoulders. His clothes demonstrated a knowledge of current fashion trends among the nobility as well as the depth of his purse; a saffron yellow frock coat covered in detailed bead work and gilt embroidery wrapped over black breeches held at the knees by gold ribbons. The entire ensemble was finished off by clean white stockings, a pair of fine black leather shoes and topped by a round cap with a pheasant feather trailing out one side. He looked like he'd just stepped off a ballroom floor and seemed very out of place among the other men, who’s ratty thread-bare clothes looked like they hadn’t been washed since the day they were made.

A bit of red glinted among the froth of white pleats at the man's throat and Griffith gasped when he realized it was a behelit hanging among the folds of his cravat. _His_ behelit. Desperation Griffith had not previously known before clawed up his insides like a cat in a barrel.

 _It let itself be taken from you so easily,_ She said. _This is a most curious test indeed._

The handsome blonde looked over at him and a physical jolt shuddered through Griffith’s body as their eyes met; the sapphire of the ocean colliding with the soaring blue of the sky.

The man smiled emphatically revealing clean white teeth. He was far too happy, as though he’d spotted an old friend he hadn’t seen in ages. “Oh splendid you’re awake!”

He rose to his feet before quickly dipping into a sweeping bow, cap respectfully clasped in one hand. “I am Nikolai. Please forgive our lax hospitality, we were not expecting a man of your calibre to be staying with us." He grinned in a manner that made Griffith’s spine crawl. "Ludek!” He snapped his fingers and the largest man stood up like a trained monkey. “Bring our esteemed guest to my tent. I must speak to him alone. Be _gentle._ ”

Griffith hadn’t been expecting polite treatment from this lot after the horrors of the night before and didn’t trust the enthusiastic blonde as far as he could throw him. When this “Ludek” came, grunting and snuffling, to pick him up he struggled, shouting for Guts to wake up.

“Oh _hush,”_ Nikolai scolded, “let him sleep. He had a long night, didn’t he Florence?”

This was clearly meant as a jab and Florence, the tall yellow twig of a man, just crossed his arms and spat out a scathing remark under his breath.

“Come now Florence don’t be a sore loser, it’s unbecoming. You didn’t need that tooth anyway.” Nikolai put his arms behind his back and smiled at Griffith. “Really my Lord, there’s no need to make a fuss. I’m on your side, though it might not look like it from there.”

Puzzle pieces were slowly shifting in Griffith’s mind, but he couldn’t yet see the picture. Were these not the same men--the same creatures--who had bound them and eaten his horse? “My side? What...do you mean?”

Nikolai laughed like he’d heard a clever joke and Griffith got the distinct impression it was at his expense.  “All questions will be answered in due time,” he said, his happy tone not fitting his cryptic words. “We have many things to discuss, you and I.” His blue eyes flashed, monstrous, and cat-like, sending a searing pain shooting through Griffith's left temple.

 _Fear not,_ said the Wise voice, _this man is a kindred spirit, Brother. He has the knowledge you seek. Hear him._

Griffith wanted to resist, but what good would it do besides possibly getting him a split lip. It wasn't as though he could just get up and run away, even if they did untie him.

 

Inside the tent, Griffith was laid upon a makeshift cot next to a small sleeping child. His heart sank the second he recognized him. It was Alois. Griffith looked away, teeth clenched. The boy had followed him. How had he not noticed he was being followed?

_Why do you waste emotion on the child, my King? The weak are destined to be prey._

Nikolai entered the tent and Griffith glared at him. "What did you do to the boy?"

"The little one? Nothing yet and it’s all thanks to your large friend--or would you prefer if I say lover?"

Griffith blushed and drew back, completely caught off guard by the remark. “How do you--why would you--?”

“I can read memories,” Nikolai answered matter-of-factly. "Hear others' thoughts.”

Griffith’s expression changed from subtle anger to baffled unease, his mouth open. “But that--that’s impossible.”

“You might think so, but I'd wager I can change your mind.” He knelt and put a hand to Griffith’s cheek. “Forgive me while I fish around. I’m told this can be uncomfortable.”

A jolting pulse connected them that quickly faded to a feverish burn. Nikolai was silent for several moments, then gasped, titillated by something. “For someone who comes off as self confident, you’re awfully insecure. Your lover leaves you high and dry and you turn your attention on an old man to nurse your bruised ego? How fascinating.”

Griffith’s eyes widened and he jerked his head away. “Get your hands off me!” His skin was still tingling painfully where Nikolai had touched him. It felt like he’d been slapped. "What do you want? Why did you bring us here? Who hired you?”

Nikolai ignored him, instead scowling indignantly at a small stain on the cuff of his jacket. 

"Answer me!"

Nikolai turned. Calmly he smiled. "Such spirit you have. No wonder they chose you.”

Griffith eyed him cautiously. He was incredibly bewildered and trying to hide it.

Nikolai eyed him with a frustrated smile that said he desperately wanted to say more, but couldn’t. He reached toward him again and when Griffith flinched defensively he laughed. “You’ve certainly got the wrong idea if you think I’d run the risk of touching _you_.” He instead reached past him and gathered Alois into his arms. He retreated a few steps to a large chest in the middle of the tent and sat down, Alois cradled in his lap.

Griffith’s chest clenched around his heart like a fist around a struggling bird. He lowered his brows and his voice. “Leave him be, he’s only a boy.”

“Oh, he's quite safe with me I assure you. I wouldn’t _dream_ of hurting one single hair on his perfect little head.” He gazed down fondly at Alois and stroked him like a cat. “The man I plan to sell him to on the other hand, well…I can’t be so sure. Some men go absolutely _mad_ for these little ones. I’ll have a real bidding war on my hands on auction day, of that much I’m certain, and that’s to say nothing of your lover out there. Should you fail to comply that will be his fate as well.” He gave an appreciative hum. “A gorgeous dog like that whose already been broken in will fetch quite a bit of money, once he’s been trained not to bite. Even with the struggle he put up, Ludek had no complaints-- _well--_ not after Florence was able to subdue him, that is.” He gave Griffith an implicit smirk, his eyes soulless and filled with a villainous spark of madness.

Despite his entire body surging with rage, Griffith's voice was eerily calm. “If he’s sustained any injuries, no fortress on earth will protect you from me.”

Nikolai shrugged flippantly. "You're going to need to try harder than that. I wouldn’t last long in this line of work if I was frightened by death threats. I get them at least once a week, sometimes from my own men so listen up: you have little power here, but as long as you comply with my demands all will be well. In fact, I'd have no problem letting you walk right out of here--” He glanced down at Griffith’s leg, “--oh, my apologies, _walk_ might not be the most appropriate word in your case.” He chuckled at his own joke. “There’s just one small issue that needs to be resolved first."

Alois shifted in his sleep, whimpering, and Nikolai stroked the child's head, cooing to comfort him. He stared into Griffith’s eyes as he did so, challenging him.

Griffith could feel it on a level of his being that was raw and powerful, a level that he could not access. It was the most bizarre feeling, but his resolve held firm. “You have my attention.”

"Good." Nikolai’s well-shaped mouth curved into a please smile. “My men and I were paid to capture your lover and pass on a message to you: his safety in exchange for your compliance with our patron’s demands. All very routine as far as abduction and extortion goes.” He rolled his eyes and yawned. “Unoriginal people bore me to death, but as I’m sure _you_ will agree my Lord, gold is gold no matter how one acquires it." He smirked like he was withholding some naughty secret. 

Griffith narrowed his eyes, fighting to control the rise of heat on his cheeks. It was a losing battle. All he could do was let the remark go unacknowledged. “Why are you doing this?”

Nikolai leaned against the main tent pole and cuddled Alois, fussing idly with his clothes. He slid his eyes from the boy to Griffith. “That’s where things get interesting. You see my Lord, when we were hired we had no idea you would wind up being someone of such…” he drew an indulgent hiss in through his teeth, “... _exquisite_ importance. We knew of your position and standing in the peerage of course, but when I saw what you had in your possession _\--”_ he fingered the behelit around his neck like it were a precious jewel,“--I realized there was far more to you than met the eye. Never in all my years did I imagine I’d someday hold the Egg of the King in my own two hands.”

Griffith's fists were clenched so tightly behind him that his knuckles were going white. He’d not had the behelit out of contact with his body in years and his veins burned. “Give that back to me!”

“All in good time, my Lord.”

" _Now._ ”

Nikolai laughed. “Your orders hold little sway over me yet I’m afraid, so allow me to explain what’s going to happen. I will return what I took from you, then you and your lover may go--presuming he can still _walk_ of course."

Griffith's whole body ached with the desire to beat Nikolai's snide face in, but he managed to ignore it, instead glowering at him with murderous eyes.

"In exchange for my generosity,  _you’re_ going to owe me a favor.” He put up a hand. “Now, I won’t be collecting it for some time yet, but one day, after fate takes its toll and the Falcon of Light has returned to the world, our paths will cross again. When that day comes, my Lord, my King, you _will_ remember your debt to me.”

_Marvelous! Just marvelous! What a truly odd sequence of events. Fate never fails to amaze me. What will you do, Dear One?_

Soft feminine laughter filled his mind and Griffith tried to drown in out as best he could. He felt like he’d been spinning in circles, his brow furrowed with confusion. “If I don’t agree?”

“That’s certainly your prerogative my Lord, but you see then I would have to carry through with my benefactor's contingency orders and you won’t like that one bit. From my peek into your thoughts earlier, you seem to be awfully fond of that large fellow out there and I’d hate for something traumatic to happen to him in front of you. _Repeatedly_. He’s already suffered enough standing--or should I say, kneeling--in the boy’s place for Ludek last night.”

Another wave of grief and rage radiated out like agonizing fireworks from the center of Griffith’s chest. He turned away, shoulders shaking.

“Really I should be thanking him,” Nikolai continued. He cuddled Alois closer with a fond sigh. “This little cherub is going to fetch me a hefty sum at the slave markets in Kushan, no question, but wealthy buyers usually want to break in new toys themselves and he wouldn’t be worth half as much if Ludek had gotten his hands and, ah-- _other_ parts on him.”

_Such beauty lies in suffering it makes me wish I could weep. Sweet Prince do not hold this one accountable. It is his nature to do as his heart wills. One day so shall you and light will return to the world in a wave of awe and terror._

Nausea besieged Griffith as revulsion tore through him. His mind was fogged and jagged. How could anyone think of doing such a thing to an innocent child; a child who had shown him compassion, who had smiled at him with genuine kindness. It was truly unforgivable. He’d never wanted to kill a man with his bare hands more in his entire life. His seething hatred spilled onto his face before he could hold it back.

Nikolai shook his head apologetically. “I know you're upset and what happened is regrettable, certainly, but my men were desperate for creature comforts, you understand, and when they get into that state they pay me no mind whatsoever. But the end result is a happy one! The boy is safe and whole after all and nothing else needs to happen to your man, so long as you cooperate with me.”

When this failed to quell the storm of death swirling in Griffith's eyes Nikolai changed tactics. "Right. Well, I can’t say I didn’t try. How about this instead; as a demonstration of good faith and to support the sincerity of my apology, I'll provide you with information about the man responsible for our fortuitous meeting.”

Griffith shoved his emotions down, struggling now to pay attention. If he couldn’t kill Nikolai and his men directly, whoever had hired them would pay even more dearly than they were already going to.

“I believe you may already know him,” Nikolai teased. Under his breath he muttered something about a tawdry upstart.

“Who?” Griffith demanded. He had an idea, but needed it confirmed.

Nikolai lowered his eyes to gaze out through his lashes. “An ambitious squire, my Lord, by the name of Corvus.”

The name hit Griffith square in the chest. It was the final confirmation he needed for the counter-scheme he’d been forming for nearly six weeks; ever since he’d opened the General’s thank you note and found it had already been read.

“This Corvus,” Griffith asked finally, trying his damnedest to remain calm, “you must have shaken his hand at some point; used your ability on him.”

"Mmm, I _might_ have. Why do you ask?”

“Did he know something about me? Something incriminating?”

Nikolai grinned with devious delight. “Oh you’ve been playing this game for far longer than I’ve been involved in it haven’t you? Yes, my Lord, he did. He knew something most scandalous indeed.”

“Did it involve a hedge? A maid?”

“Yes. Near a lake, as a matter of fact. As I said before my Lord, your dog out there would truly fetch a lovely price. He’s used to having things shoved in every hole isn’t he?”

Griffith could hardly think straight. Not just because of Nikolai’s taunting remarks, but because he had just confirmed his suspicion that Corvus was responsible for having them tailed by that bumbling maid. He’d noticed her continued presence in his periphery so quickly after they'd arrived that he was insulted someone thought him stupid enough not to notice her in the first place. Who had put her to the task though had remained a mystery to him for some time. Research had turned up a few interesting items about the Keep's inhabitants, as had speaking with other members of staff--particularly the young scullery maid Madeleine--but it wasn't enough. Finally he'd settled on entrapment to bring out an answer. It was easy enough; all he had to do was establish a regular routine in the evenings and give the maid something of note to report; something that would not slip through the cracks. The maid, he knew, would take the information back to whomever had set her to her task and then all he would have to do is wait to be approached. If it had been Roland the old man would have confronted him about it straight away--a confrontation Griffith knew he would have no problem spinning to his advantage--but Roland hadn’t said a word. Though it was certainly an extreme first attempt at blackmailing him, Griffith now knew with dead certainty Corvus was the man responsible. He wanted something badly--that much was clear--though what that something was Griffith wasn’t entirely certain.

“Corvus gave you his demands, did he not? What are they, exactly?”

Nikolai wagged a finger. “I don’t think I’ll divulge that just yet. I’ve been more than generous with information thus far. Now it’s time for you to make a choice: Will you give your word you'll honor our pact when the time comes, or do my men have to encourage you a little more?”

Griffith shook his head. "That won't be necessary, you have my word. Now give me the information.”

“Oh no no, we’re not through yet.” His eyes flared again as he cackled, his body shifting and stretching in a stream of incorporeal mist that reeked of offal and sulphur. Griffith went into a coughing fit as the noxious cloud filled the tent. It stung his lungs and eyes.

Alois screaming made him open them again, burning or not. A black scaled demon moth, dark as midnight with too many arms hanging off his chest clung to the wailing child. 

“The time for pleasantries has passed," He chittered in a booming, reverberating voice. “I have your word and now we shall bind it in the body of this child. He will make a fitting sacrifice to our shared future and hold you to our pact!”

Griffith struggled against his bonds, “I agreed to no such thing you disgusting--”

The demon laughed maliciously. “Ah and yet you’re _going_ to agree to it if you want your lover’s handsome head to remain attached to his neck.”

Griffith’s thoughts raced as his panic worsened. He had to come up with a plan, but how could he when he didn't know what was happening? Would Guts really be killed if he didn’t agree to offer the child to this demon? If that’s what it came to, he supposed Nikolai was right; he wouldn’t have a choice. In his heart he knew he’d choose Guts over a child in a heartbeat.

Thankfully there was no time for Griffith to give his answer, the thunderous roar of a wounded beast shook the ground beneath them. Wind suddenly battered the tent, the trees above the clearing crashed and snapped. The demon moth Nikolai hissed and dropped Alois. The child shrieked in terror as the giant moth flew in a hissing fury out of the tent. Alois crawled to Griffith for protection, despite him being tied up and completely incapable of doing anything. The boy cowered against his chest, his frail body shaking like a leaf as he cried.

 _The ropes,_ he thought, _Alois could untie them._

"Alois it's alright, everything's going to be alright, but I need you to be brave. Listen to me, the rope--"

Suddenly, over the violent din of noise and Alois' wailing Griffith heard Guts searching for him, shouting his name between clanging blows of his sword as they struck something metallic. How had he gotten loose?

" _Guts! In here!_ "

A figure came bursting from the mist into the tent, heading straight for him, but it wasn't Guts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There were no ceiling fans in Medieval times, which is probably for the best because they'd be covered in shit at this point.
> 
> I have a sequel in mind that takes place some years in the future in the alternate universe I've created here and would of course be about Guts and Griffith. I haven't decided if I'm going to write it or not, but if you'd like to help me decide, could you please take a moment and [**vote in my poll?**](https://linkto.run/p/MZ5GZ3DN) Thank you!


	20. Turn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The big 2-0 guys. Awesome to see so many people have stuck with this for so long. We're at the top of the lifthill now boys and I can't tell you how happy I am to be staring down at the impending drop with so many wonderful people. 
> 
> We'll still be on the Sunday schedule, next chapter will be up July 21st :) Tip your waitresses.
> 
> 2019/07/17 10:59--Just a heads up last week was kind of a write off at my house so the next chapter may need to be pushed out a few extra days. It depends how writing goes the rest of the week. I'm still grinding at it to try and get it out Sunday (Chapter 21 on the 21st of the month? Like come on, how often does that opportunity present itself? ^_^). If I _do_ end up needing more time though I will let you know<3
> 
> 2019-07-20 15:29--Going to need some more time with this one I'll put it up next Friday the 26th thanks for your patience friends!

“ _Ri_ _ckert_?”

Sliding to a stop beside the cot he threw his arms around Griffith’s shoulders, relieved and out of breath. “Griffith! You’re okay!”

“ _H_ _ow--?_ How did you find us?”

Dagger drawn, Rickert began rapidly cutting the bindings on Griffith’s wrists and knees. “I’ll explain later! Casca and Guts are--”

An earth shaking roar split the air as something massive crashed down next to the tent. It took out a corner pole with a snap of wood and rustle of canvas.Casca's voice rang high and clear over the frantic din. "Rickert, get him out of there, this thing is about to--!"

A monstrous clawed-hand ripped through the canvas on the far side of the tent. Alois screamed, overlapping the tail end of Guts’ furious battle cry. There was a loud crash of metal meeting meat, then sinking into stony earth. The massive demon arm thrashed and swiped, sending debris flying as the creature screamed in agony.

Rickert thrust out his hand. “Let's go!" He pulled Griffith to his feet and slung his arm over his narrow shoulders to support him. "Don't worry I’ve got you!”

He made reassuring eye contact with Alois and indicated to Griffith with an upward nod. “Hold on so you don’t get lost okay?”

Alois clung to Griffith's hand like a castaway to a piece of ship debris. Griffith cringed inwardly. He’d just about traded him to a demon to spare Guts' life and receiving the boy’s trust now made his gut twist.

Alois huddled close, holding Griffith’s hand with both of his.

Rickert breathed heavily under Griffith's added weight as he sliced through the back of the tent.

After a night spent tied on hard ground, every muscle and joint in Griffith's body protested the movement, but he pushed past the pain with gritted teeth. The trio barely made it five steps from the tent before the wounded creature brought it crashing down behind them; the thick center support snapping under his massive claws like a twig.

Disoriented, Griffith swung his head this way and that, trying to analyze the situation and calculate their chances of survival. Guts was thirty feet away dealing with the demon that had destroyed the tent. He was bleeding so profusely from a cut above his right eye he couldn't keep it open. Casca was at the far edge of the camp, roughly fifty feet, fighting a second, much thinner demon. She was favoring her left side, but still fighting. The disgusting moth-creature Nikolai was nowhere to be seen.

When Guts paid Griffith the small portion of attention he could spare, Griffith's chest loosened. They exchanged relieved glances before Guts urged him away.

 _"Go!"_ he cried, exhaustion weighing down his voice. "Get out of here n-- _Aaghh_!"

The branch-like demon's long leathery tail had slammed into Guts' side, sending him flying. Narrowly missing the fire Guts came to rest in a crumpled heap at the north edge of camp.

“ _Guts_!” Griffith cried, forgetting his own injury and trying to run to him.

“You can’t!” Rickert grunted, straining to hold his Commander back. "Look look, see, he's moving! He'll be alright! Now come on, we have to get to the horses!” He backed Griffith and Alois to the bramble bushes, head on a vigilant swivel.

Teeth clenched, Griffith tore his eyes away and gave in with a painful nod. Not because he didn’t think he could do something to help, even with his injury, but because Rickert was right; Guts and Casca had a handle on things. Still, as they hit the tree line, Griffith kept a watchful eye on them.

His level of concern transcended his feelings for Guts, his love dwarfed by logic and an endless drive to succeed. His desire to keep his valuables safe at any cost was ruthless. Gold, horses or his two most valuable soldiers, they were all the same in that regard: property. _His_ property, and no lousy trio of morally bankrupt sellswords--demonic or otherwise--was going to get away with touching his things.

Across the clearing, Guts approached the prone demon with a nonchalance that betrayed the urgency of the situation. His mouth was contorted into a severe, mocking grin, his eyes burning with malice. He was vengeance personified, moving like dark poetry to destroy the man who'd wronged him.

Griffith was utterly transfixed.

 _How magnificent,_ She said, luxuriating against the inside of Griffith's skull. _A violent beauty of unrivaled perfection._

He bit the inside of his lower lip, trying to keep his expression neutral.

Guts paused at the demon’s side and shrugged his sword off his shoulder.

“Since you can’t seem to keep your hands to yourself...”

He switched moods rapidly, letting out a cry of rage and exertion as he brought his massive sword down on the creature's remaining arm. It sank all the way through to the ground with a chink of bone and a muffled ‘THUD!’ Blood reeking of sulphur sprayed everywhere _._

Griffith nudged Alois gently. "Close your eyes, young Master.”

Covering them probably wasn’t going to do much good, any lasting damage was already done, but it felt like the right thing to say.

The boy didn't respond. He was frozen in place, staring at the carnage with glassy, doll-like eyes.

Guts raised his sword and Griffith scrambled to gather the comatose child onto his hip. Thankfully Alois snapped out of it, burying his grubby face into the disheveled silk of Griffith's cravat.

The sword came down and the creature screamed. Missing both arms now and bleeding profusely from a gaping hole in his stomach his cries were high and pitiful. Glistening purple intestines peeked out from the gut wound like bashful children from behind their parents' legs. The creature was grotesquely unnatural, long in the torso and impossibly muscled, multiple pairs of arms and legs supporting the horse-like creature's massive, contorted frame.

Rickert shuffled his feet, straining a little under the added weight. "Griffith, we need to--"

" _No._ I must see this resolved."

The demon stammered and begged but Guts sneered at his suffering. In fact, he made it worse. Grinding his boot callously into the beast's disturbingly human groin he leaned down to goad him.

“Can’t seem to keep _any_ body parts to yourself, can yah?" He spat, stomping down again with a vindictive grin. His sword was suddenly above his head again preparing to strike.“ _You filthy piece of SHIT!”_

The creature frantically tried to curl inward. "NO DON'T!"

Guts drove his sword down, slicing the creature’s head in half.

The pitiful screaming that resulted was, in many ways, worse than seeing brains and ruptured eyeballs and Griffith wished he could’ve covered Alois' ears.

Half alive, the creature twitched and moaned at Guts' feet until Casca ran over and mercifully chopped off what was left of its head. Finally, it lay quiet.

Guts turned and Griffith followed his gaze to where the thin demon she had been fighting lay dead on the ground. Casca was nothing if not efficient.

Wincing and holding her side, she drew a series of shallow breaths and scowled at Guts. She shoved her finger to his chest plate. "You--" she gasped, "-- _Idiot!"_

 _"Hey! W_ hat the hell's the matter with you?!"

Casca frowned at him, still catching her breath. "You let him...you let that thing...scream for the hell of it. There’s…" She coughed hard for a few seconds, "...there’s still one more out there. The leader flew off but--"

_“Casca!”_

Guts had just enough time to push her aside before a screaming black blur rocketing down from the tree tops collided with him. The creature’s arms, too long and too numerous, clawed and slashed at Guts’ chest plate as the two of them skidded into the collapsed tent. The metal had cracked on impact, but it bought enough time for Casca to get behind the preoccupied demon and hack off his wings.

Blood erupted along with the creature’s agonized cry. He scrambled off Guts, crawling pitifully toward the brambles.

“Don’t let him escape!” Griffith ordered as Rickert helped him over.

Casca kicked the demon in the side to incapacitate him, then pressed her knee into his lower back. She jerked him up into a double shoulder lock facing Griffith.

The extra arms on Nikolai's belly twitched and clawed pointlessly at the air. Apparently they had a much more limited range of motion than the main pair.

Griffith’s eyes narrowed on the creature. “I believe you have something that belongs to me."

He indicated to the demon subtly with his chin and Guts stepped forward. With a single jerk he removed the stolen behelit from Nikolai's neck.

Griffith's eyes remained fixed on it. "Thank you, Guts." He pulled his hair out of the way. "If you wouldn't mind?"

"Sure." With some careful maneuvering Guts got the behelit re-tied. With the familiar weight back around his neck, Griffith shut his eyes. Relief flooded through him instantaneously, cool and invigorating, like the first drink of water after a long battle. Composure regained, he tucked the pendant safely into the neck of his waist coat. Even through his shirt, it felt warm.

He looked at the demon, his face purposefully cool and unreadable.  "I have a few questions for you."

The demon's face contorted into a wince of obedience, extra hands clasped in gratitude. "Yes My Lord, of course! Absolutely! I-I’ll tell you anything you want please don’t let her kill me!”

Casca growled at the demon and drew harder on his arms, increasing the pressure on his neck.

The demon squealed in pain and Griffith shook his head. “That’s enough, Casca.”

She eased off and turned to Guts with her look of concerned displeasure.

Guts shrugged his shoulders at her, but positioned himself to the side of the interrogation nonetheless. His sword casually resting between Griffith and the demon, he eyed the creature smugly, inviting him to try something.

Griffith adjusted Alois on his hip and the boy moaned pitifully in protest. Griffith didn't want him present for this, but he didn't really have a safe enough place to leave him either. Not alone anyway. 

“Rickert?”

“Yeah Griffith?”

“You mentioned horses. Are they nearby?”

Rickert nodded his head. “Near the river, about half a mile south."

“Excellent. Would you take Alois and wait for us there? He likes horses. Distract him as best you can.”

Rickerts face skewed with confusion. “Okay, but won’t that leave you stranded? Your leg--”

Guts put a hand on Griffith's shoulder. “He can lean on me,” he said, taking the child. He set him on the ground and Alois immediately started crying. Startled, Guts stepped back, leaving Alois free to run and cling to Griffith’s leg. Guts sighed heavily through his nose and Griffith gave him a sympathetic look of encouragement.

Guts rolled his eyes and after squatting down to the child’s level, awkwardly patted his head. "Hey kid it's okay...well...it's _not_ okay, but dont worry we'll take care of you."

Griffith watched with quiet fascination. He rarely saw Guts interact with children.

“It’s not safe here,” Guts explained. “You’re gonna go with Rickert and wait where it _is_ safe, okay?”

Alois shook his head no and clung to Griffith even tighter.

Guts frowned, his temper already shortened by stress and pain.

 _“Hey!_ Look here kid, I don’t got time for your cry baby bullshit! Life’s hard and cruel and then you die, no amount of blubbering's gonna change that, got it?"

Alois was so startled he let go. Guts grabbed his hand and put it in Rickerts'.

“Take him. I've got Griffith.”

Guts wrapped his arm tightly around Griffith's waist, holding him to his side so he wouldn’t fall. A comforting warmth flooded through Griffith, softly blushing the tips of his ears.

Rickert picked Alois up and the kid wailed. Thankfully Rickert's optimism and good humor were as impervious to strife as they were utterly infectious.

“So you're Alois huh? It’s nice to meet you, I’m Rickert! Griffith said you like horses. Me too! Are you hungry? I've got some jerky on my. . . ." The kid gradually stopped crying as Rickert prattled on to him all the way out of earshot.

Griffith smiled at Nikolai. “Now that the young Master is elsewhere, you’re going to tell me everything I want to know, unless you'd care to wind up at the bottom of the river, that is.”

"No no--err, ah--Yes my Lord, yes of course! I’m dreadfully sorry about this whole mess, all my fault, really, truly awful. Sire if I may say, I wasn't in support of--”

"He didn't ask for your life's story!" Guts snapped. "Disgusting piece of--"

Griffith calmly raised a hand. “What I believe my friend is trying to say is, you will speak when spoken to; just the facts and nothing more. Understood?”

Nikolai nodded as best he could. "Yes yes!"

“Good. Who else do you work for?”

“As I mentioned my Lord, we've-- _I've_  only the one benefactor. He's first squire to the Lord General Vorhees of the South Midland Lion Claw Knights: Sir Corvus Neely of Burgess, fourth son of the esteemed Chancellor Neely.”

Corvus' intense motivation was clearer to Griffith now, despite not knowing his ultimate goal. The youngest son of any Lord rarely, if ever, amounted to much. Privilege and inheritance only trickled down so far. "What does a chancellor's son stand to gain from blackmailing me?”

Nikolai cringed hesitantly, and Guts smacked him. “Answer the damn question unless you wanna lose more body parts!”

Panicked, Nikolai nodded as best he could with Casca’s arms locking his neck and shoulders in place. “It’s mistress Lidia,” he shrieked, “The General’s eldest daughter!”

A confusing answer but at least they were getting somewhere. "Lidia? How would Corvus gain favor with her by extorting me?" Griffith asked.

“Th-they--they're working together! They desire to go North, to obtain positions and status among the King’s Court!"

Griffith made a contemplative sound.

_A desire with which you're well acquainted, Dear One. You see? You two aren't so different._

"The woman," Griffith continued, "How does she figure into this plan?"

"She seeks funds to support them in the capital, my Lord. Heaps and heaps of gold!"

_My my my...How familiar their struggles are indeed._

"And how does she plan to secure such a large sum of coin?”

Nikolai risked a cackle and Casca choked him harder. He sputtered and hacked. " _Ahhgh!--A--a_ little bird from Charcy Keep told me she’s been slipping poison to her only brother! She’ll inherit everything from him if he doesn’t make it to eighteen.”

It took a moment to process such a gruesome, callous plan. Her own brother? And one so young at that. _That’s why he's so small and frail,_ Griffith thought bitterly. Disgust and anger welled up quickly behind his outrage. His shoulders trembled with restraint.

Guts eyes filled with concern. “Griffith?”

"It’s nothing.”

He stared icily at Nikolai and a dark, lurking part of his psyche was pleased to see the terror on the demon's ugly face. His behelit grew a bit warmer.

“Should the boy perish, inheritance law would pass the March back to his mother.”

The demon shook his head. “Not exactly my Lord, you see, she’s infertile."

"Infertile?"

The demon took on a forced affect of pity. "Oh _yes_ truly awful circumstances. Awful. Dreadful. The traumatic birth of her last child took a toll on her body. No more babies for her!"

It made so much sense now, the web untangling before Griffith's eyes. "With no brother, or parents, Lidia stands to inherit everything--or rather her husband does."

Nikolai chittered and squeaked with amusement. "You catch on quickly, my Lord! I've always heard you were clever and I'm pleased to know the rumour rings true."

Griffith didn't want to believe a woman could be capable of such brutal betrayal against her own family. It added fuel to the vengeful fire in his heart Corvus had started. They would pay for everything they'd done and everything they intended to do.

The irritable voice in Griffith’s mind cackled and did flips in the air. _O’ Lord of Desire, such despondency, such pain, such malice! How delicious and sweet human suffering is._

“Casca. Let him go."

_Yes, get angry. The miserable wretches Corvus and Lidia shall crumble beneath you for their transgressions._

Casca was taken aback. “Let him go? But Griffith he’s a--”

“I _said,_ let him go.” A quiet rage thrummed beneath the placid surface of his words that left no room for further questioning.

Casca set her jaw avoiding Griffith's gaze as she let Nikolai out of her grip. Irritably rolling her shoulders and muttering to herself, she stormed out of the clearing without a backward glance.

Nikolai waited until she was a safe distance away before exuberantly praising Griffith's kindness. “Oh thank you my Prince! Thank you!” He crawled to Griffith’s feet, kissing his boots with his grotesquely inhuman mouth. “Thank you, blessings upon you!"

Guts snorted. "He's not a prince idiot _._  And quit touching him or I'll pull your arms off one by one and beat you with them."

"Shows what you know you ill-dressed cretin," Nikolai spat, still clinging to Griffith's calf.

Guts put a hand to his ear. "Sorry? What was that? You _want_ me to beat you to death? I suppose I could--"

Nikolai verbally backpedaled in a string of apologetic gibberish, trying to seem as innocent as possible.

Griffith smiled, focusing intently on the demon. His eerie gaze didn’t fit the warmth of his expression, his blue eyes piercing through the groveling creature like shards of glass. His behelit was so much warmer now, and as his eyes burned through Nikolai a tingling current of power passed through it into his chest. It spread rapidly through his body to a chorus of mocking delight from the voices in his mind.

Nikolai cowered, something inside him clearly reacting to the behelit's energy. "I was a fool to challenge you. I must atone for my sins. My life and allegiance are yours, please do with them as you see fit Sire, please!"

Guts cocked a brow, opening his mouth as if to question the bizarre understanding Griffith and the demon had reached, but shut it, dumbfounded, as Griffith lowered his hand to Nikolai's head. He spoke softly, stroking him like a dog. "Oh, I will."

The demon let out a disturbing moan, half terror, half pleasure and reverently nuzzled Griffith's filthy boot.

Guts' face twisted with rage and disgust. "Get your disgusting hands off him!"

When Nikolai ignored him he gifted the foul creature with a swift kick to the ribs. The demon let out a yelp then glared spitefully at Guts, hissing loudly.

"Griffith please. Are you _really_ gonna keep this thing alive? He's gonna turn on you the first chance he gets!"

Griffith nodded firmly. "He'll serve his purpose before long. I'm certain of it."

"Not if he slits your throat in your sleep! I mean, _look at him_!"

Nikolai hissed at Guts again and wrapped tighter around Griffith's calf, resembling a rattlesnake protecting a clutch of eggs.

Griffith put a hand to Guts' cheek and laughed reminiscently.  "Casca said the same thing to me about you once."

This caught Guts off guard, his eyes opening wide.

Griffith tried to comfort him by stroking his jaw, but Guts batted his hand away. Undeterred, Griffith gave him an understanding look.

Guts tried to ignore him, but before long the look achieved its goal all the same. Guts sighed with remorseful resignation. "How do you know he's not a threat?"

Griffith smiled at him with all the confidence and positivity in the world. "I don't."

Guts shot him a baffled look and Griffith drew his face down; almost a kiss, but not quite. Guts went still, tension dispersing through his shoulders.

"Just as I told Casca back then," Griffith continued, "I can _feel_ he has a part to play in all this. Something inside me just... _knows_. I can't explain it. I'm afraid you'll just have to trust me on this one my friend."

Griffith brushed his lips, feather-light, over Guts'. "I've never been wrong about something like this before." He kissed Guts before he could respond; a soft press of lips meant to calm, to reassure. The scent of sweat and earth and trees on his skin was so pure and enticing Griffith couldn't get enough. Drawing back just a fraction, he breathed deeply and sighed with contentment. "You're proof enough of that."

Guts held Griffith tight, eyeing Nikolai with a great deal of distrust. "I _really_ hope you're right."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Griffith has weird taste in pets. What do moths even eat? Also, nobody let Guts babysit...


	21. Reflection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! In case you aren't following my instagram (@kirin_riki) and didn't see my story posts from yesterday, the fic is cruising along towards the landing strip (i.e. the end chapter I've already written.) and I can't thank you guys enough for being so awesome through out this whole thing.  
> I ALSO wanted to mention that I jumped the gun a bit on my time/chapters remaining estimate. I originally said there were only a few chapters left, but it's looking closer to somewhere in the ballpark of half a dozen-ish.  
> I'm away on a work conference all next week and have a busy meeting schedule and friend visiting upon my return so I won't have much writing time in there. I'm going to try and have this up by August 16th, outside estimate of August 23rd. Thanks for your patience. Do drugs, stay in school :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> UPDATE 2019-08-22 11:11--Got laid off last week and been scrambling to rearranging my whole damn life. Ch 22 is 60% done, this is just a heads up I might need some more time with it. I probably won't, it just depends how today goes. Thanks very much for your patience friends! I'll either be up tomorrow night or I'll post a revised date.
> 
> UPDATE 2019-08-2019 17:36--Chapter 22 will be up Monday the 26th. [**Please go vote in my CASCA poll**!](https://linkto.run/p/WT0VXY5K) Your input will help me decide which path we take to the final chapter.

Distant cracks of thunder rumbled through the sky overhead as the disheveled group slowly made their way out of the forest. Nikolai stayed behind under strict orders to remain put. "I'll call for you," were Griffith’s short, cryptic, instructions to the creature and Nikolai was eager to obey him. He hadn’t stopped groveling since returning to his human form. Guts had let out a huge sigh of relief as they left the creepy asshole behind. 

As they began their slow trek, Rickert regaled Guts and Griffith with the story of how he and Casca had arrived at the Charcy garrison just in time to join a search party. 

Rickert smiled up at Griffith with a warmth that could melt the sun. "Casca was really worried. I tried to tell her you’d be okay if Guts was with you, but she didn’t see it that way.”

 _“Rickert!”_ Casca hissed under her breath. 

“What? You did!”

With a fuming shake of her head Casca gave her horses bridle a quick jerk forward and stepped up her pace.  

Rickert stroked the stout black gelding beside him, the one Guts was riding. “Casca really has a sixth sense when it comes to you, Griffith. The General’s men thought heading south toward the river would be the best place to look because brigands and highwaymen are often found camping there, but she thought the woods seemed more promising."

“Brigand camps?” Guts snorted in disbelief. “More like the recruits are so damn superstitious they wouldn’t set the tips of their shiny new boots into the woods around here unless they were dragged in by force.”

Rickert screwed up his face in surprise then frowned, his shoulders slumping. Perhaps he had liked the idea of facing off against a band of brigands? Guts batted a fly away from his face and a sharp pain shot through his wrist. Gingerly he rolled it in a circle. It hurt, but he didn’t think it was broken. Still, he winced as it ached and popped. His wrists had been tied much too tight for far too long and he was worried he might have some lasting damage. His mind suddenly raced backward through the battle to the night before. He tried to shut it down, but it was too late and some of it slipped into his consciousness. He knew what happened and he knew why, but thankfully all he saw were bits and flashes shrouded in the glowing amber shadows of dying coals. A darkness settled in the pit of his stomach and he shoved it down, refusing to acknowledge it. 

His eyes, dulled by exhaustion and unpleasant memories, shifted to the red bundle in Griffith's lap. A faint hopefulness tinged the dull edges of his mind as he watched Alois sleeping, completely unharmed, in Griffith’s arms. He’d done the right thing and his body had paid for the privilege. That, perhaps, was the hardest part of the ordeal to accept: that he’d chosen it. It was like he’d betrayed the traumatized child inside him, always running from ominous grinning faces that chased him endlessly. He still woke up screaming some nights. 

Guts had never thought of himself as the sacrificial type before. He’d always known his main priority: preserving his own life. The previous night had shown him that that wasn’t as true as he once believed it to be. 

Turns out, he couldn’t let a grown man force himself on a kid, particularly one that looked like he’d blow away in a stiff breeze. As terrible as the ordeal was it was over and he knew how to deal with the memories. Before long he’d have them compact, sealed and buried along with the rest of his life’s misery-filled moments. If he’d allowed a child to be raped in front of him, on the other hand, he’d never’ve been able to live with himself. There would be no forgetting something like that.   

Griffith looked down at Casca, hair swirling gently around his shoulders. “I can’t speak for Guts, but I for one am very glad you trusted your intuition.”

Casca glanced at him quickly before her shoulders drew up around her ears. They were blushing a vibrant red-gold like the dusting over her cheeks. Guts’ brows drew inward, a fondness settling gently over his features. He knew Casca wasn’t the kind of person who easily accepted praise even when she deserved it, _especially_ when it was coming from Griffith. She’d been infatuated with him for as long as Guts could recall and really took his opinions and advice to heart. 

Looking across at the sincerity and genuine gratitude on Griffith’s face Guts found himself wondering if he was aware of how she felt. It dawned on him then that he and Griffith had never really discussed her as they might other women; or rather, how he imagined they _might_ discuss other women. It was not a topic that came up often. 

Looking at her now, it was very obvious to Guts that Casca was not like other women. Their worth and value were determined more often than not by youth and beauty and an ability to bear children. Casca on the other hand proved her value again and again with her determination, her sword-arm and her desire to help Griffith succeed; a desire so strong and sharp it could split a battleaxe. God help you if you got in its way. She was an enigma the likes of which Guts had never before encountered and seeing her blush like a shrinking violet at Griffith’s praise was a jarring experience for him. He realized with startling clarity that he'd never really appreciated her as a woman in her own right. Gentle curves, soft skin, an understated grace to her movements; he saw these qualities now as he never had before and, in some way, that was a testament to her strong personality. She made it clear she didn't enjoy being female most of the time, and seemed to do everything in her power to downplay the feminine elements of her person, though there were some things that were out of her control. She always bathed alone, but besides that Casca was treated the same as any other man in Griffith’s ranks and Guts had fallen in step with that mindset fairly quickly. Her brassy demeanor, barking orders and prickling resentment towards him after he joined the Hawks had made _that_ all to easy. He’d hated her then, but had to commend her for it now. Life in a mercenary band couldn't have been easy for her and the fact that she was Griffith’s right hand before Guts had arrived to unofficially--and un _willfully_ \--jostle her out of the position, spoke volumes about her as both a soldier and a person. Griffith didn’t bestow his trust lightly. 

As they crossed the sea of grass, Charcy’s windows glinting in the distance, Guts wondered what Casca would do if she ever found out about his and Griffith’s newly fledged sexual relationship. His stroll through the garden of possibilities wasn't a pleasant one. A cold chill crept from the middle of his back and out through his veins like an army of translucent spiderlings. He shrugged it off, blaming the cool wind of the approaching storm and the fresh holes in his clothing.

By the time they reached the fort, the storm was no longer approaching. It had very much arrived, the sky darkened to a rough, churning grey. Their return to the Keep was met with exuberant relief and joyful praise the likes of which Guts had never witnessed. The General had been beside himself with worry when he realized his son was missing, so much so that he ran straight to Griffith’s side and snatched the boy--still wrapped in the bloody, stinking remnants of Guts' red cloak--tearfully into his arms. He thanked them all for keeping Alois safe and then God for his mercy, all in one long winded outburst. 

Lady Vorhees was more reserved in expressing her gratitude, taking the boy in her arms only after the filthy cloak had been removed. She comforted him stiffly for a few moments before handing him to his father and leaving the room. The child seemed eager to get back and Guts couldn’t blame him.

Despite the endearing nature of the General’s relationship with his only remaining son, Guts found it difficult to be around the man now that he knew about his “arrangement” with Griffith. He had to clench his fists every time he got the urge to slam them into the old man’s face. His hands ached by the time Griffith finally excused them to the upper floors under the pretense of needing to rest. Casca and Rickert followed them to Griffith’s suite of rooms and Rickert in particular went bug-eyed over the refined accommodations, his mouth agape.

“The rooms down the hall are mine as well,” Griffith said, gesturing to the heavy door at the rear of the suite that lead to the servants corridor. He turned to Casca. “The one on the end is unused, but I’m told it has two beds. It should accommodate you and Rickert comfortably, so long as you don’t mind sharing the room.”

“I’m sure it’s lovely, but really Griffith, we’re fine. Rickert and I can ride back to camp once the storm eases.” She turned to stare out the large window. The storm that had been threatening to open a downpour over them the whole trip back was now lashing furiously against the glass panes.

Griffith put a hand on her shoulder and she twitched. “Casca,” he said softly, “I don’t want you riding back in this storm.”

“It's fine. I don’t want to inconvenience you while you’re recovering. I only came to give you this.”

Griffith took the report envelope she shoved at his chest and set it aside. “Thank you, Casca, though I’m afraid I must insist.” His eyes took on the kind yet authoritative look that meant the topic was no longer up for debate.

She sighed through her nose and shrugged acquiescently.  _"Fine."_

“Yes!” Rickert cheered, his fist jabbing into the air.

Guts gave him a good-humored smirk. Rickert could be annoying from time to time, but his optimism was infectious. It was something Guts was certain he’d learned from Griffith, whether he’d intended it or not.

Casca moved toward the door, clearly uncomfortable with the arrangement and Guts didn't blame her. Her unique existence clashed with conventional society in every respect. Without the Hawks rallying around her, giving her purpose and validating her choice of profession, she was no longer a highly-skilled army captain, she was an exotic curiosity. Something for uninformed people to gawk at and whisper about as she passed by. The capital city had warmed to her as they had to Griffith and treated her and the rest of the Hawks with the same respect. It was in smaller backwater places like Charcy that she faced the most ridicule. 

Guts generated just as much side-talk with his large stature and massive weapon, but at least if people gossiped about him within earshot he got to hear awe and respect in their voices. All Casca received was condemnation and judgement. 

Guts remembered townsfolk doing the same--and worse--to Shizu, the only mother he had known. He hadn't understood why at such a young age, but he did now and seeing Casca subjected to the same thing filled him with bitterness, resentment and anger. He'd loved Shizu deeply and he begrudgingly respected Casca. Neither of them deserved the treatment they received. Those that failed to understand them, that scorned them for doing what they had to do to play the horrible hand life had dealt to them made him want to kick a lantern over and set their town on fire.

"Before you go…" 

Guts jerked back to the conversation and found Griffith shuffling some papers on his desk. He produced a rough topographical map with a small sound of delight. “Ah, here it is.” 

Guts caught a glimpse of the markings on it, but didn't get a good enough look to fully process them.

He handed the map to Casca, who looked over the series of arrows, lines and other symbols with a critical eye. "This is incredibly accurate Griffith, did you make this?"

Griffith bowed his head, politely accepting the praise in her voice. "I compiled it using the few land documents I could find for the area near the river."

Rickert popped around Casca's side and looked at the map with great curiosity.

"You want us to run drills on our own camp?" he blurted with excitement. Guts rolled his eyes.

Griffith inclined his head. "Yes. It’s rather uniquely fortified by the surrounding landscape, wouldn't you agree?"

Rickert nodded and Griffith turned the question on Casca with a slide of his eyes.

She nodded. "Yes it is.” 

Griffith peered at her. "I want you to run pinpoint drills with Gaston and Pippen. Take my position at the head of 'A' Company and tack the Raiders to your battalion as well. I want all the men to take advantage of this learning opportunity, regardless of who they’re stationed with or who is in command."

Casca’s expression opened in shock at the same time Guts' brows went up. Rickert just stared up from her to Griffith and back, jaw hanging. Griffith had never run an 'A' Company drill with an acting commander in his place. Not once. A look that straddled the border between embarrassed and touched pulled Casca's features inward before she could catch it. With a huff she rolled the map carefully and slid it into a spot on her belt near the small of her back. 

"Well?” Griffith asked, easing into a more relaxed position against the desk. With the drop of his shoulders and the off kilter angle of his head that counterbalanced his one-sided smirk, he eased a tension between them that Guts hadn't noticed until it was no longer there. “Think you can handle it?"

Casca’s chin jerked toward her chest affirmatively. "I won’t let you down, Griffith."

He gifted her with a sincere look, every feature on his face glowing with pride. "I'm pleased to see you’re still in high spirits,” he chuckled softly. “I hope the men are equally invigorated by this new challenge. I expect a full report upon my return."

She nodded sharply, mouth set in a hard line as she brushed her eye with the back of her hand. “Understood, Sir.”

Unable to control her face any longer, Casca blushed furiously and knocked into Guts' shoulder as she hurriedly strode from the room. Rickert chased after her with a backward wave to Griffith, speculating aloud about the delicious things they might get fed for dinner.

Griffith crossed his arms, staring after her with a quizzical look even after Rickert shut the door.  He let out a long sigh and Guts leaned over and nudged him. “What’s wrong?”

"I wouldn't have chosen her to run things in my stead if I thought she wasn’t capable of it. I don’t know why she can’t see that." His airy blue eyes were dark and heavy, set into a seeking expression Guts was seldom privy to.

Guts exhaled heavily and rubbed the back of his neck. “Women are crazy. Who knows why they do anything? I bet _they_ don’t even know half the time.”

Griffith laughed but his eyes weren’t smiling.

"Known that many of them, have you?” 

Guts saw the real question peering from behind Griffith’s cool expression like a tiger waiting to pounce. He swallowed and averted his eyes. 

When Guts looked back, Griffith's questioning gaze launched at him. At first Guts didn’t understand, but then something occurred to him. Was Griffith...jealous? 

Utterly thrown by this possibility and the unexpectedly intense look on Griffith's face, Guts bunched his shoulders self-consciously. "You don’t need to sleep with women to know they’re all nuts. Just look at Casca!" He didn’t want to admit he knew what the real topic of their conversation was so he stuck to the shallow veil on the surface.

Griffith’s eyes narrowed as a smirk grew upon his lips. He said nothing, did nothing, yet Guts felt his blood warming all the same. He jerked his chin off to one side and scoffed irritably. “Don't get the wrong idea. It's not like I’m a--I mean it’s not that I’ve _never_ ...I _have_ , you know!” 

When Griffith started snickering softly Guts whipped his head back, brows skewed into an embarrassed, accusatory frown. This reaction only served to make Griffith laugh even more. It wasn’t cruel laughter by any stretch, in fact, if Guts weren't the subject of Griffith’s amusement he might have been prompted to laugh along with him. His mirth was contagious. “Alright then,” Guts barked playfully with a jab of his finger, “if it’s so damn funny, tell me how many women _you’ve_ been with!”

Wiping tears of laughter from his eyes, Griffith didn't miss a beat. “I haven’t been keeping track." 

Guts choked on a gasp. “You aren’t serious?” 

“Do I look like I’m trying to amuse you? You'd be surprised how many married women among the nobility lust after men who aren't their husbands. Those women happen to find me rather desirable."

"I've  _noticed."_ Guts set his jaw and Griffith pushed the chair between them out of the way. He put a hand out and stroked Guts’ face. "I didn't say any of that to hurt you. You know that, right? I’m only providing you with facts, just as you requested."

Guts nodded with a resigned sigh, then went still as a melting wave of unadulterated pleasure radiated down his body. It was pure and it was simple and he couldn’t get enough. Griffith’s sure hand smoothed over his cheekbone, up to his temple and finished with a curl of fingers behind his ear. “You need a trim,” he chided fondly, carefully setting more wayward strands of hair behind Guts’ ear.

Guts was having trouble staying focused. Eyes closed, he indulged in the soft glide of Griffith’s fingers through his hair; a sensation he had long been deprived of that he now knew he never wanted to live without. “Yeah…” was all he managed to add to the conversation. His hair was long enough that Griffith could pull several inches between his fingers before it fell from them.

"I could cut it for you," Griffith offered, his eyes eerily intense. Guts' heart raced, his skin beaded with cool sweat, as though he were suddenly standing naked in front of a room full of people. But there was only Griffith. It was a strangely erotic feeling and Guts gritted his teeth, ashamed that it brought him pleasure.

“It’s about time I trimmed mine as well.” Griffith picked up a long strand of his hair and held it out, showing Guts the damaged ends. Guts saw, but he was more focused on the novelty of Griffith's state of dress to care. He pushed his hair back and shrugged agreeably to divert attention from his bodies reaction. It really was time for a trim though, he realized, feeling the length in his fingers. His hair was so long it had dripped sweat over his brow into his eyes a few times during his last fight, a repeated annoyance that had resulted in his forehead being smeared with sulfurous demon blood. It flaked and itched and stunk to high hell. 

Griffith had run into a similar mishap; one of his sleeves had gotten so drenched in the foul-smelling liquid he’d had Rickert cut it off at the shoulder seam before they left the forest. 

Guts had been too distracted by everything that had happened to pay much attention to it before now. He followed Griffith's pale arm in a linear path of observation from the delicate turn of his wrist, down to his scared elbow and finally up the muscled swell of his upper arm. It emerged at the shoulder through the bloody maw of his ruined shirt like a hazy beam of light passing through the eye of a storm. It was a novel thing to see, a shirt with asymmetrical arms and Guts found it strangely arousing. Griffith was filthy, his clothes were sweaty, stained with dirt and spattered with blood. He looked like he’d just come off the battlefield. Smelled like it too, and Guts had never been more attracted to him. Ashamed by his reaction he blushed and cleared his throat awkwardly. “Should probably wash up before you do anything. That girl said they started baths for us when we arrived.” He backed away slowly then turned toward the door to the servants corridor.

He looked back, hand on the door frame. “You coming or not?” His attempt to hide the eagerness in his voice failed miserably.

Griffith answered him with a quick smile and heavy-lidded flash of smoldering intensity that required no further explanation. Guts swallowed as though he had molasses coating his throat and turned abruptly toward the baths. 

Griffith was not far behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This went much more OOC in my head. I couldn't put this in sounded way too modern and OOC for my taste, but just know in my trailer-trash heart of hearts this is what I wanted to write XD *Sips wine straight out of the box*
> 
> Guts:"You coming or not?"  
> Griffith: "That depends."  
> Guts: "On what?"  
> Griffith: "How much stamina you have."


	22. Wolf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for being patient guys and welcome to all the new readers! I've had quite a number of you join and send me nice comments and messages. Can't tell you enough how much I appreciate it. Especially over the last little while. The universe sorta turned my life into a war zone. I have the opportunity to go back to school full time and finish my bachelors degree now though so I guess that's one positive thing. I start up again in just under 2 weeks. 
> 
> Next chapter will be up Sunday September 15th. 
> 
> Want to [**Support the War Effort?**](https://ko-fi.com/F1F8BGRL)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ **Please go vote in my CASCA poll**!](https://linkto.run/p/WT0VXY5K) Your input will help me decide which path we take to the final chapter.

No sooner had Griffith locked the bathroom door was Guts’ massive palm pinning him up against it.  

“Guts what--!”

A second hand slammed into the door just above his head and he flinched, shoulders drawing up. They made eye contact for one burning moment and he exhaled in a hesitant rush as Guts descended on his jaw and throat. Only one thing stood in his way and he raged at it with a frustrated growl.

"These _fucking_ things _!”_ The disheveled, bloodstained cravat at Griffith’s throat didn't stand a chance. It was soon lying at their feet, slit by a dicey slash of Guts’ knife that was far too close to his skin for Griffith’s comfort. To his mystification, the thought of what might’ve happened if Guts had nicked him set his heart thrumming rapidly with excitement. 

 _You taste of fear, and yet you do not resist him? Is that lust burning in your heart or a desire even darker still? How very curious you are, O’ Desirous One._ Griffith’s spine prickled in rippling waves of discomfort. It was _Him_ , the oldest and most antagonistic of the voices.

The female voice defended Griffith with an irritated scoff. _How dare you interfere, cretin. Back to the recesses with you! I'm enjoying our Lord’s agonizing performance._

Griffith's head swam with all sorts of fantastical, impossible ideas. Nightmares and fantasies, sexual desires so embarrassing he’d rather be burned at the stake than admit aloud to anyone. He was scared to death by his thoughts and God help him, he loved it. 

Guts brought Griffith’s mind back to him, descending on his throat in a flurry of sucking, licking and biting. He groped him firmly through his trousers and kissed him until his lips were flushed and tender.  A low growl tore from Guts mouth over Griffith's throat and he canted his lower body into him so firmly it rattled the door's pull ring. The muscles in Guts' powerful thighs shifted and flexed against him as all manner of lewd thoughts coursed through his head. Griffith drew a dizzying breath through his nose and tried to remain calm, even as his arousal pressed upward against the flat of his groin. Heart racing, skin prickling with sweat, his pulse jumped in his throat like a jackrabbit.

 _Fear is present, but you are not afraid._ It was Her. She dragged out the words in a manner that lent them sultry undertones. _He’s serving his purpose. A delightful plaything. Allow yourself to enjoy his attention, sweet Prince. Enjoy him while you still can; the wheel of fate moves ever onward._

Griffith could feel the languorous energy in her voice; it directly conflicted with the rapid movements of his lips and tongue and hands as he desperately tried to keep up with Guts' fervid passion. It made his head spin and ache, but Guts gave him no quarter, hand slipping into his blood-stained waist coat and under his shirt. The storm swirling in the inky sky ignited the room and for a few disorienting moments Guts’ face was elevated from the gloomy fire-light into stark relief. The reckless abandon in his eyes as they stared into his own served to add more fuel to the fire of Griffith’s arousal.

He drew a heady breath in, trying to stabilize himself so he could think things through. Any such progress toward that end was quickly stripped away by Guts' calloused hand fondling his chest. His hands were something Griffith had marveled at since the first time he'd touched him as a lover. Incredibly rough overall, they were nevertheless smooth in the areas that took the most frequent abuse, the skin polished to a silken finish. 

Griffith’s throat burned with the desire to cry out as he recalled just how wonderful Guts’ hands felt oiled and fisted around his cock. Pinned against Guts’ stifled arousal, his own ached and strained. His knees grew progressively weaker as Guts' hand trailed down his side. His thumb brushed over his nipple and Griffith gasped. They were incredibly sensitive. He sighed against his cheek, tried to initiate a kiss, but Guts wouldn't allow it. Flipping him around he abruptly pinned him once again. One hand stayed above Griffith’s head, the other gripped him around the waist. Their hips fit so tightly, so perfectly together, a piece of parchment wouldn't fit between them. Guts guided them back with a few short, jerking shuffles. Angling Griffith's groin away from the door caused his torso to bend and slide downward, his back arching in a way that was positively lewd. Guts pressed a palm firmly between his shoulder blades, restricting his breathing, but holding him in place. Now, friction and pressure were the only things doing so. If Guts eased off his hips or back he'd surely fall flat on his face. Or sprain another wrist. The position was a terrifying exercise in trust and Griffith couldn't help the embarrassment--or pleasure--that slipped into his worried gasp as he struggled to remain calm and breathing. 

Mercifully, Guts only let him sweat his fate a few seconds more. He leaned over him, an arm wrapping supportively under his chest. Griffith sighed with relief, but it was short lived. Guts' mouth slid against his ear. His voice was wanton; words dark and familiar. _"S_ _eems you don't mind a bit of rough handling._ "

Griffith could hear the smirk in Guts’ voice and he shuddered, dark bands of apprehension and pleasure radiating through him.

Breathing hard, he tried to reason with him. “Guts? What--what are you doing?”

Guts pressed close, kissing his neck. “Giving you what you wanted.”

Griffith moaned a colorful string of soft, desperate, sounds, his cock hard and eager.

Guts jerked one of the front panel buttons off Griffith’s ruined trousers and fondled his eagerness roughly through his undergarments, his rudimentary actions generating a shocked, hungry whimper deep in Griffith's throat. “You were twice as hard as this," Guts teased. "You wanted it so badly--begged me not to go like some desperate woman. Don’t you remember, _Commander_?”

The raw masculinity in his taunting reply sent a deep shudder through Griffith’s body, his head tipping back in a silent cry.

Guts laughed at him, dark and quiet. "I'll take that as a yes."

Griffith was grateful Guts could no longer see his face as there was no hope of masking how incredibly turned on he was. Or how anxious. Griffith wasn’t even mad about the trousers, he was far more startled by Guts’ aggressive use of his rank and his demeaning words. Griffith tried to initiate once again, this time reaching a hand back to stroke Guts' hip, but Guts batted it away and gripped him tighter.

Frozen in place and vulnerably positioned, Griffith shut his eyes tight. What was Guts going to do now? Was he really going to tear his trousers down and fuck him in such a humiliating position? Surely not, but then why did the idea have his heart beating at such a dizzying pace? It was mortifying how aroused he was. His body coursed with lust while in the full grip of a fight or flight response. He couldn't move an inch. It was both terrifying and maddening in the best possible ways. When Guts burrowed into his hair to kiss and bite his neck, Griffith could no longer be bothered to hide his enjoyment, uttering a soft expletive he very seldom used. 

Shortly thereafter he said it again, only this time it hissed out deliciously through clenched teeth. Guts had accidentally bit him too hard, leaving a small angry cut stretched over his collarbone. Blood welled to the surface and Guts spat on the floor as he staggered back abruptly.

Griffith put his back to the door, locking eyes with Guts for a fraction of a second. He looked confused, as though coming out of a trance, and Griffith didn’t understand why. Not at first.

Breathing as though they’d just finished a sparring match, both men took a much needed moment to process everything that had happened. Griffith pressed gingerly over the cut and winced, the salt on his fingers stinging the wound. It wasn’t a deep cut by most standards--by a mercenaries' it was hardly a scratch--but it bled nonetheless. Griffith looked at the blood on his fingers with fascination. His vision narrowed in on the pulsing red color, the way it so beautifully filled in the loops and whorls of his fingerprints. Everything slowly faded, his behelit growing heavier and warmer around his neck. He brought his shaking hand to his lips and held it there. Hesitantly he opened his mouth and--

“I’m sorry,” Guts words jarred Griffith so thoroughly he made a sound. Quickly dropping his hands, he looked up just in time to see Guts taking a seat on the padded bench near the bathing screen. He noticed Griffith watching him and pinched the bridge of his nose with a guilty sigh. “I didn’t mean to--I don’t know what came over me. I was out of line. Please forgive me, Griffith.” 

Still a bit baffled, but starting to understand, Giffith steadied himself against the door until his thighs stopped shaking then gingerly hobbled the few short steps to Guts’ side without his crutches. His ankle was healing nicely and he hoped they would be able to leave Charcy sooner rather than later. For _everyone’s_ sake. 

“I need neither an apology, nor an explanation.” Despite his outfit being ruined beyond repair, Griffith adjusted his waistcoat before sitting down out of habit, so as not to crease it. Guts watched him do so with a gentle, quiet expression that did not go unnoticed.

Griffith smiled. “Guts…I know what you did for Alois and... I just want you to understand how truly noble a thing that was.”

Guts crossed his arms over his chest and shrugged, his movements drawn in tight to his core. "Don't know what you're talkin' about." 

Griffith winced empathetically and tried to put all his good intentions into his words.

“Guts I don’t know if any speech I can offer you will help ease your suffering, but I have to try. More than once today I caught sight of the terrible darkness in your eyes and every time I did so my spine filled with ice. I understand the heavy weight you now bear and it hurts me terribly, but know you don’t have to bear it alone, my friend. I’m here.”

Guts raised his chin from his chest but his eyes remained fixed to the floor. He shuddered, some terrible memory or other flashing over his face. “He was so small I couldn’t just let that monster--!” His head jerked and his jaw clenched, a sigh rushing through his teeth.

“There's no rush, just take your time. I’m listening.”

Guts squeezed his eyes shut and grimaced, his face sick with hurt and shame. “I didn’t want to do it,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. His chin snapped back down between his hunched shoulders as his head rolled forward into his hands. “But I had to.”

Griffith threw his arms around his shoulders and Guts jerked away with such violent panic he fell off the side of the bench. "Don't _touch me!"_

Scrambling back a few paces on the floor, he gulped down air, his chest heaving like a diver breaching the surface of water. Guts was shaking and Griffith stared at him, his heart constricted painfully with guilt. 

Guts put fingers to his brow, covering his face and trying to hide his embarrassment. _“I hate this!"_  he cried with impotent frustration. "I'm _so_ sorry..."

Griffith raised a hand slowly out in front of him and slid closer along the bench with his kindest, most disarming smile. "Shh no no, please, that was entirely my fault." It was taking everything he had to keep his distance; wanting nothing more than to hold Guts tight in his arms until he’d absorbed all his pain.

"My dearest friend..." 

When Guts lowered his hand and looked up, Griffith wished with everything inside him that he hadn’t. The weight of what happened was painfully visible on Guts' face; it clung to his handsome features, dragging them down and making him seem so much more fragile. His deep brown eyes were always filled with life and warmth, but not now. Cold and forlorn they stared from under worried brows. It was as though Guts were looking past him. Through him. They sat there for some time together, neither of them saying a word.

When it got to the point that Griffith was concerned about missing out on hot water baths entirely, he cleared his throat. Guts’ eyes swung listless and heavy toward him. His expression and the curious tilt of his head told Griffith he was listening. 

“I’m afraid if we don’t rid ourselves of this filth soon we’ll be doing it in cold water instead of lukewarm.”

This earned him a quirk of Guts’ mouth. It was only for a moment, but it gave Griffith hope enough that the one he loved most would pull through his melancholy after all.

\-----

Griffith took the most perfunctory bath possible trying to finish bathing as quick as he could. Once immersed in it, the water was considerably cooler than he anticipated. Guts managed on his own as well, clearly not wanting to remain in the cooling water for any longer than was necessary. 

He got clean to a point that he had to stop, giving Griffith a concerned look. With a freshly stitched wound under his right arm he had no choice but to ask for help.

Griffith nodded at him. “Of course, I’d be happy to.”

Getting the demon blood off his own skin had taught Griffith he would need soap, a sponge and elbow grease, but he was worried Guts wouldn’t be able to handle being touched. He first tried pouring warm rinse water over his back and shoulders, but as he predicted, the gunk didn't budge. The oily blood dried like a second skin. 

"There’s no other way I’m afraid. I'll have to scrub it off. Is that alright?"

Guts hesitated and Griffith, trying to keep the mood light, smiled at him. "Wouldn't want to go to bed smelling like the egg the hen forgot about, would you?"

Guts gripped the sides of the tub. "I don’t know what hens have to do with it, but I suppose not."

"It’s a colloquialism. One you apparently haven't heard, but never mind that it’s not important." He picked up the sponge. "I'll start slowly. If it's too much for you, tell me promptly and I’ll devise another plan of action.” He paused, considering a new possibility that just dawned on him. 

“Actually...I might have a better idea. One that may be less stressful.”

Guts shrugged dismally. “All ears down here.”

“Perhaps,” Griffith continued, “Rickert would make a better wash maid in this particular instance. He’s not in any way a threat to you. Would that be more comfortable?"

 _"No_ ,” Guts snapped.  Griffith flinched and Guts expression flipped from guilt to anger before finally settling on resignation. "I’d...rather you do it."

Griffith sighed out a tiny smile of approval. He still thought Rickert would be a less stressful option, but then again this was a wonderful chance to handle Guts’ body in a way he never had before. He shrugged warmly, happy to oblige the request.

The crackling fire soon accompanied the gentle sloshing and dripping of warm soapy water as Griffith raised the sea sponge out of the basin. The bulk of it poured out freely over the back of Guts’ neck and Griffith wrung out what was left with a firm squeeze. The sponge touched him and at first Guts trembled to a worrisome degree, but, slowly, this lessened as Griffith continued to wash the golden curve of his shoulders. With quiet diligence he continued: dip, wring, scrub, repeat. Following this mantra all traces of the sticky foul-smelling blood were sluiced away, revealing a pristine plane of wet gold beautifully illuminated in the glow of the fire.

Guts shivered and rubbed at his arm. Griffith alerted to this and felt his chest tighten with guilt for taking his time, indulging in his task. The water was far closer now to cold than lukewarm. Without thinking Griffith squeezed Guts’ shoulder apologetically. Though he still jerked with fear, he didn’t say a word and, most importantly, he stayed in the tub. It was certainly a step in the right direction and not only gave Griffith hope, but also an idea. 

“Come.” He held out his hand with an encouraging look. To his delighted relief Guts took it.

“What about my hair?" Guts asked, grabbing a damp piece and running it through his fingers with a scowl. "You were going to cut it.”

Griffith wrapped a towel around his waist and then limped carefully over to pick up his crutches. A few steps was one thing, but he knew he wouldn't make it all the way back to his chambers without them. “Considering how the evening has gone, that task is now one for another day my friend, one when we are both more attentive. Besides, there’s something much more important that needs tending to.”

Guts eyed him. “What?”

Griffith smiled warmly, his eyes sliding up to meet his question. ”You.”

Tucking his own towel around his waist Guts cautiously smiled back. Griffith's heart beamed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guts needs a metric fuck ton of TLC, but don't worry. He's in good hands ❤
> 
> Want to [**Commission a fic or oneshot?**](https://ko-fi.com/kirin_riki/commissions)


	23. Oil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Um, holy crap??thanks? so much for?? the positive messages and comments??? I am really, truly, humbled! If I don't get to responding to everyone please know that you ALL made me cry. Seriously. I'm a snivelly baby who cries at the drop of a hat. Remember that Dawn commercial a few years back where they were cleaning all the oily ducks with dish soap and there was some indy folk song about hope and shit playing in the background? No? Am I that old already? Am I just nuts? Either way, it was rough. Oily ducks got cleaned and I sobbed.
> 
> That being said, I'll see you for the next update on **October 13th** (I'm taking a couple breather weeks to give myself lots of time to do Inktober!)  
> Updates will be posted in the notes here closer to that date as usual, but WHY look here for that, when you could get it instantly, along with behind the scenes fic nonsense, facts, polls and general dumbassetry like me getting high and doing Berserk commentary at 5 AM after 14 hours of writing utter GARBAGE that didn't make it into this chapter at all...-_-; [**on my insta!**](https://instagram.com/kirin_riki) Crash into my DM's baby and talk Berserk to me. You know you wanna ;)

Once they were safely back within the warmth and seclusion of Griffith’s bedchamber, Guts headed toward the four-poster on the far side of the room. Griffith called out to him and shook his head, directing him instead to the lion skin rug near the fireplace. Rather than do as he’d been told, Guts proceeded to stand awkwardly in the middle of the room, watching Griffith carefully light the oil lamps with a rushlight. When he noticed, Griffith once again directed Guts to the fire, this time pointing to it and making eye contact. "Go make yourself comfortable. I’ll join you in a moment." 

He’d initially considered the bed for what he had planned, but ultimately decided against it. It was much warmer in front of the fire and the rug could accommodate Guts' full body length from head to toe with room to spare; a feat the bed could not boast of. 

Griffith blew out the smoldering rushlight before it could burn his fingers, then retrieved the oil Roland had given to him. Despite being in his belt pouch through their entire ordeal in the woods, the green bottle had somehow made it back to Charcy completely unscathed. 

Guts was just sitting down on the rug when Griffith approached him from behind the armchair. When he spotted the bottle apprehension set his jaw and he flinched, his dark eyes flashing warily beneath his furrowed brow.

Puzzled, Griffith inclined his head and peered down at him through his damp fringe. His curls were always longer when wet. "On your stomach, if you please."

"Why?" Guts pried, his tone both defensive and accusational, as though he suspected an ulterior motive. Griffith answered him with an evasive smile that betrayed the laughter lying just beneath its surface as he removed the damp towel from around his waist. Behind him, Guts tried to stifle a gasp as he appreciated the view, but failed terribly. This caused the laughter Griffith had been trying to keep under wraps to break through for a moment. He chuckled lightheartedly as he neatly draped his towel over the arm of the statue to dry. 

Carefully, he lowered himself down beside Guts, then shoved his crutches off to one side so they were in no danger of getting in the way.

The tanned expanse of Guts' shoulders jerked at the proximity and Griffith's brows drew together even more as the desire to hold Guts to him--erase his pain--gripped his heart like a hawks talons on a vole. He let out a heartfelt sigh as he turned toward him. “It’s alright. You’re not in any danger, just take a deep breath and _relax_.” He breathed in and out slowly for emphasis, motioning for Guts to mimic him until eventually he caught on and humored him. It was only a breath or two but already he seemed much calmer. Griffith looked at him earnestly. “Do you take me for a man who'd ask for sex after what you've just been through?" 

Guts looked away, his eyes unfocused and closed off. “No...”

Try as he might, Griffith couldn't hide the pain this half-hearted answer sent spreading over his face. That Guts placed the value of his own bodily autonomy below that of Griffith’s own sexual needs was heartbreaking. He understood it all too well. He shut his eyes and took a moment to gather his composure. 

When he opened them again Guts was huddled around his knees, one arm holding the other. Griffith offered him a reassuring look. "You've been through quite an ordeal, but you should know you've nothing to fear from me in that regard."

"Are you sure about that? You seemed eager enough in the bathroom."

Griffith’s cheeks darkened and he had to laugh a little to hide the fond groan that started to slip out. He needed to get a better grasp on his reactions, it was getting to a point that it bothered him how easily Guts could draw his arousal to the forefront. Eventually he nodded, pulling a lock of hair idly through his fingers. "That may be so, but, surely I've earned more credit than that? Have I not proved myself a gentleman?"

Guts balked at this, his anxiety written in the set of his brows, the curve of his mouth, the rounded hunch of his shoulders. He pointed absently at the bottle in Griffith's hand. “What’s that for if you don’t want anything?"

“This? It’s just so I can give you a--” He froze as the implications of Guts’ question hit him like a crossbow bolt to the chest. “Oh no,” he waved his hand, “no no, that’s not why I…” He sighed heavily. “My deepest apologies for giving you the wrong idea. After what you’ve been through it’s no wonder you thought--” 

Moving slowly and deliberately, Griffith uncorked the bottle and put his finger to the mouth. He flipped it upside down and shook, then showed Guts the thick golden oil. He rubbed it between his thumb and forefinger and they slid off one another easily as the oil began to melt. "It works quite well as a massage oil. There's better smelling and far less pricey substances to use for the purpose of course, but this is all I have with me at the moment."

Guts' shoulders loosened a notch, his spirits perking up at the idea as he stared at the bead of warming oil slowly creeping down toward Griffith’s palm. He blushed and cocked a brow. "You...want to give me a massage?"

"Indeed." Griffith nodded with resolute purpose as he put his hands up in a non-threatening gesture. "And that's all. I swear it on King and country. Unless you ask it of me, your virtue is as safe as can be. At least for tonight." 

Embarrassment rapidly seeped through the gaps in Guts' apprehensive expression as his ears went red. He raised his arm awkwardly behind his head as he’d done a million times before, but this time he immediately dropped it, swearing and breathing in a sharp gasp through his teeth.

“Dammit all! The stitches hurt worse than the cuts!”

Griffith watched a slow trickle of rich red blood creep from the wound under Guts' arm, his blue eyes vivid and narrowed with intense curiosity. His behelit throbbed against his chest.

_Just a taste won't hurt my Lord. Just a tiny taste. Sweet copper. Beautiful ichor. Salt of life. Just one little taste…go on..._

Griffith’s lashes fluttered--the only outward indication something was going on inside his mind--then turned his eyes up. “I’ll bet that stings something awful.”

Guts winced, one eye shut and streaming. He gave a strained laugh that was only half serious. “Nope. Wh-what gave you that idea? Damn smartass.”

Griffith raised a brow and cracked a knowing smile at his brazen response. “Careful. Best not strain yourself _too_ much or I’ll see to it you take bed rest for the next few days.” It was much more a threat to get back at Guts for his own ruthlessly enforced week in traction than any sort of sexual innuendo, but Guts blushed all the same. Griffith’s eyes narrowed, his smile oozing with devious charm. He could all but see the things they had done together over the past six weeks floating across Guts' face.

He swept his fingers dismissively through the air. “Don’t put too much thought into that, I was only teasing you.”

With the painstaking precision of a surgeon, Griffith slowly placed a hand on Guts' thigh. He held his breath expecting the worst, but... nothing happened. Not a jerk, not a twitch. His arms flexed as he resisted the urge to raise his fists triumphantly over his head.

“You alright?” Guts asked, his voice filled with awkward concern.

Griffith was so relieved it was palpable. His breath came out in a great rush. “I am now, yes." Idly, his fingers played over the valleys and hills of muscle in Guts’ thigh.

"Were you expecting me to explode?"

“Something like that I suppose, but it doesn't matter now. You let me touch you. You must be feeling a bit more at ease?”

Guts took a moment to process this as he finally uncurled his limbs and settled onto his stomach. "Thanks to you, I guess so.”

A smile crept up Griffith’s face until it was crinkling the corners of his eyes. He laid his palms on Guts' shoulders. 

“May I start?”

"Ready whenever you are."

Over the next half hour Griffith proceeded to work Guts’ entire body, kneading and massaging the warm oil into his bruised skin and loosening up his muscles. He was covered in knots, but Griffith paid particular attention to his wrists; pressing and holding just below the bend in his elbow and carefully flexing his wrist joint fore and aft to gently stretch the ligaments and help restore flexibility. Guts was worth little to anyone--save for himself--if he couldn’t swing a sword.

Later on, as Griffith was working through the knots in Guts' thick scarred calves he started to shift his hips. A few minutes after that and a gruff, almost pained sound escaped his throat. Griffith's lower body twitched in anticipation. “Is something the matter?”

“Just...adjusting,” Guts offered with a forced cough. His words were soft and relaxed and Griffith hung on every one, his affectionate smile growing bigger by the second.

Guts surprised him by laughing a little to himself. “Didn’t think I’d enjoy this _quite_ as much as I am."

"I'm so pleased to hear it."

“Never had a massage before," Guts sighed  "but I heard about ‘em from Judeau.”

Griffith paused a second or two before seeking clarity. “Is that so?”

Guts shrugged noncommittally. “Guess some of the nicer brothels in Wyndham offer it.”

This came as something of a shock to Griffith. Judeau had never been interested in visiting those sorts of establishments, at least not in his experience. It dawned on him then that perhaps he didn't know him as well as he thought. Judeau had joined the Hawks at _least_ eight years before, but it was difficult to recall exactly; to Griffith it felt very much like he’d been there forever. He'd spent many a companionable evening by the fire with the other officers, Judeau carving and singing; telling jokes and stories. He was a soldier of upstanding merits and one of the easiest men to get along with Griffith had ever met. There wasn’t a single fire in camp that would turn Judeau away, even if he came empty handed--something he seldom ever did, mind you. Griffith paused a moment, his brow furrowing. Had Judeau really started to visit brothels? Griffith made a serious note to sit down and talk with him awhile when next he had the chance and find out the truth for himself.

A sudden groan grabbed his attention. Guts was stretching and sighing under his hands, reminding Griffith of the large brown tabby cat they kept to guard the fresh food larder. "That feels amazing. Hey where'd you learn to do this anyway?"

"The books in my library aren’t just for show," Griffith lied carefully.

Guts let out a breath of relief; small and hushed. "I'm glad. Better a book than from some greasy old bastard. No offense," he added quickly.

“None taken, although it makes me wonder...” 

Guts gave an acknowledging grunt. "Wonder what?"

Griffith smiled, his next question coming out low and intense. "Suppose for a moment I _had_ learned it from some _greasy, old, bastard..._ would you have been jealous?”

Guts stiffened immediately, ear-tips flame red. Griffith wasn't sure if it was how he phrased the question or what his answer was. Either way it was incredibly endearing to watch him get flustered.

_What pure folly it is to assume the affections of a God King could belong to any one man. And yet…_

Griffith trailed his fingers down Guts’ back from below his ear to the curve of his ass. "I suppose it doesn't matter in the end, does it? You belong to me, don't you? You do as I say. You kill whom I ask you to kill and you do it without complaint."

Guts let out a long drawn-out moan as he rode out an intense shiver quaking down his spine. His limbs shook and trembled with restraint. Griffith shuddered as well, resisting the urge to rock his hips up against Gut’s thigh and gain some purchase on his golden skin with the tip of his cock. “Tell me again. Tell me you're mine.”

At first Guts didn't respond. Griffith leaned forward. _"Say it."_

Guts went still, his breath coming in quick strained gasps. His voice was barely above a whisper. “I..I'm yours.” Just saying the words seemed to give him pleasure and the voice in Griffith's mind luxuriated against the inside of his skull, cackling to herself.

"And do you want me?"

Guts hesitated, but only for a moment as he gingerly shifted his hips. He was so aroused it looked painful. He stared at the fur below him, the entire line of his body rigid. "...yes. I do."

Griffith's gaze was heavy on Guts' back, filled with something dark and sinful. He let the warmth it generated flow over him as he stroked Guts' shaggy black hair as one might a dog. He put his mouth to his ear once more and, smiling against it, whispered, _“Good boy”_ before he could stop it from coming out. His heart skipped a beat when Guts shuddered and lifted his hips; a shocked, pleasured, gasp falling from his gorgeous lips. Thoroughly intrigued by this reaction, Griffith pressed further.  
"Did that excite you?"

Guts jerked his head to one side and huffed out a confused sigh. " _No!_ I mean--I..." he sighed, frustrated, "I don't know, I’ve never--"

Griffith kissed his neck again, grazing the skin with his teeth a little this time. Guts' moan was pained, like he'd pressed a needle to his skin. The way he ground his hips though--all slow thrusts and soft sighs--spoke volumes to the contrary. Some sort of switch flipped in Griffith's mind, his interest in Guts as an academic subject to be poked and prodded and observed slowly starting to fuse with his desire to fuck him so hard and so long he'd rub a bare patch through the fur rug with his cock. His voice dripping with lust and authority, Griffith tried taunting him. "I think...you do enjoy it." He stroked his hair again idly, marveling at how soft it was. He moved to the other ear this time. "Don't you?" 

Guts shuddered, gasping silently and cursing under his breath. " _D_ _ammit_ Griffith! Cut it out I don’t know how to--"

 _“Oh...”_ Griffith interjected gently as he ran a hand down Guts' side to tease the muscular cut of his hip with his fingers, "I _very_ much believe you could learn and it doesn’t have to end there.”

Rather than grow more defensive, more aggressive, Guts perked up turning his head to listen. 

“Tonight is about _your_ needs. _Your_ desires." Griffith boldly kissed the fluttering pulse in his neck and Guts jerked so violently he thought he’d gone too far. Only Guts' rough gasp--hard, masculine and eager--assured him he was on the right path.

Griffith sighed, thoroughly relieved. Guts was only protesting because he was unfamiliar with this sort of bedroom game, not because he actually disliked it, and that was okay: Griffith knew how to ease him into it. Get him to play. It was a game he’d mastered before he’d even turned thirteen.

All the boys Father rescued from the streets had to learn the games if they wanted to eat. Like the others, Griffith had hated them, but unlike those ignorant mouth-breathers, he’d learned fast to keep his opinions to himself. Not only that, he paid attention, showed an interest, learned what to do and how to do it well. Because of this, Griffith was the only boy Father let the world see. He’d earned the old man’s trust--his heart--and along with it came access to infinite knowledge of the noble world; the world that had so painted the insides of Griffith’s eyelids with impossible dreams. As Father's pretty pet he’d gotten everything he could ever want: clothes, fine ponies, money, the finest food and wine, but none of that mattered to him. His true spoils came in the form of lessons; Reading, sums, and battle tactics had been interspersed with riding, fencing, grappling and table etiquette. Father was a master of many skills, and for those he lacked he hired teachers and trainers aplenty. Cartography, geography, history--even painting and ballroom dancing--had been on Griffith's curriculum before the age of ten and he consumed the lessons one after another with an insatiable appetite. He was always ready for more and Father was happy to give him whatever his heart desired.  
In the dim glow of Father’s bed chamber, the names and faces of history's greatest rulers danced endlessly through the dark, teasing his young mind with fantastical images of glory, chivalry and boundless wealth. He had no idea back then just how much power the detestable nightly encroachments Father made on his dignity and innocence would one day give him access to, it had simply been the price of admission to a realm of unguarded knowledge; one which would have remained firmly out of his reach among the heavens had he not paid his dues. None of Father’s other boys were clever enough to show initiative, to take it upon themselves to meet the old man’s needs with enthusiasm when he got out the oil; they’d all just cried and fought him. Had they just played Father’s games correctly, then perhaps they too would have been handed the moon and stars on the blade of a sword just as Griffith had, but all their obstinance had bought them was a short brutal life filled with misery and, when they were too used up and dead-eyed for Father to enjoy them any longer, a quiet unmarked hole in the earth to “run-away” into.

Hands clenched together into white-dotted fists, Griffith started a little when Guts suddenly got up on his elbows. Shaking his head, Griffith watched as he turned to look at him over the broad swell of his shoulder. The intense need in Guts’ deep brown eyes made him tremble with shameful levels of wanton excitement as a twinge of something dark flared to life inside him. His body ached to be touched, to be hurt; pinched, slapped, burned by the rough bite of jute cord tied too tight around his delicate wrists. His cock was hard and weeping at the thought and he wanted that tied off too. Mustn't touch, Father would say. With shame in his eyes and desire in his voice he slowly spiraled one long, slender finger through the air. “Turn over for me.”

A split second of half-assed consideration was all Guts gave the order, before doing exactly as he was told. His desire to please was scrawled all over his face, eyes half-lidded and silently asking for something he didn’t know the word for; something maddening his body screamed for, but his mind had no concept of...yet. Griffith settled a loving kiss on the top of Guts’ head before bending to nip at the junction where neck and ear met. _“Good boy,”_ he mouthed against him, before turning his head to kiss him deeply. Possessively.  
To his utter delight he found Guts more eager to return his kiss than he’d ever been before. A dark rush of satisfaction flooded him to his core and a hazy thought drifted into his mind; it felt like a memory, but one he had yet to live, or, perhaps he’d forgotten. A dark room with cold dirty floors; long hanks of rope held him immobile beside a table full of dark implements that stretched on for miles. A red hot needle was coming toward him, bobbing along the dark floor and suddenly stabbing into his abdomen. A searing pain shot through his mind that was so sharp and vivid it nearly knocked the wind out of him. Thankfully it faded as quickly as it had arrived, Guts’ eagerness a soothing balm. It filled a void deep within his psyche he never knew had been there in the first place. Waiting. Wanting.

From within the dark recesses the rotting face of his Father smiled at him and maggots fell from his tongueless mouth into the black void around him. _Such a good, good, boy you are. My fierce little dove, my pretty white hawk. My Griffith. Mine. All mine. Aren’t you, little bird? Tell me, pet. Tell me you’re mine. Say it._

Even missing his tongue the roiling specter taunted him, hurling poisonous vitriol across space and time that Griffith had spent a decade trying to forget. In that moment, he feared he never truly would. A single tear squeezed past his iron defenses and trailed down his cheek a moment before getting lost in the long hair that framed his face. In that moment he was glad he'd kept his hair long all these years, despite how often he’d vowed to cut it when he was a child. 

Father had always liked his boys feminine and pretty; tied and adorned up to the neck in taut bows and crisp white lace like gifts waiting to be opened. Unfortunately for Griffith, he'd discovered soon after he and Father...parted, that other wealthy men had similar preferences and so, long his hair had stayed. It would be that way for as long as Griffith remained a King in want of a country. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Rushlight](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rushlight)  
>    
> Sorry about the no trigger warning thing on this one guys, but the whole "referenced/implied past child abuse" thing is in the tags and honestly, by _this_ point ya'll should know to expect fucked up shit. I mean...it's Berserk. Shits rapey af. Take care of yourselves guys and make sure you're reading stuff you can handle, there's to many of y'all out there for me to worry about I'd go mad with stress lol. 
> 
> Also the Casca poll results will be up soon on my insta story in case you were waiting on that ;)


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